#every dream has its price tag

[hazelfoureyes]

The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice (part 3)

I deadass wrote part one as a one shot. Is this what peer pressure is? I love it.

It would have been easy to forget you, your soul was his anyways so the real fun had already finished. But that pesky video hit most streamed in 24 hours, he couldn’t even walk to the butcher without hearing you scream his name from errant phones. Surely there was a way, even from hell, to finish what he started and get you out of his system.

⟢ part1♡̶sidestory♡̶part2♡̶part3♡̶part4 ⟣

tags/warnings/promises: Alastor x reader, smut, soft Alastor, unprotected sex (duh?), creampie, edging a little, feelings, Valentino exists, Vox also exists, literally wrote this split screen with part 2 on the right side so I could line it up right like he does hehe, Alastor has a bad time

tag requested: @astraechos , @thekanrojimitsuri2 , @hoeforalbedo , @crazylazybabyk , @oddball08 , @lovingyeet , @just-trash-yeah-thats-it , @random-3455 , @alicehasdrowned , @des-deswain5621 , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @doctorswife221b

When Val released, ‘The Radio Demon fucks a Human Sacrifice’, it immediately went viral. The website crashed, downloads surpassed his wildest, horniest dreams.

It’s scary but also hot? ☆☆☆☆☆

Eat me Mr. Radio Demon!

I’ve never wanted to be a pussy so much in my life.

The reviews were all favorable, the comments rolling in, it was perfect.

Until Vox said it wasn’t. He had seen the video, but figured no one would care about seeing Alastor fuck anything. It wasn’t the success that got under his skin, it was the wave of positive attention it brought Alastor. Suddenly everyone was tuning in to his broadcasts, little miss princess’s hotel was busier than ever.

And it was ubiquitous. Every screen seemed to feature Alastor’s breakout role.

“I said pull it, Val!” Vox slammed his hands on Valentino’s coffee table.

“Vox, baby, you’re being really sensitive about this. I’m literally fucking piles of money right now. Actual piles of money, like, person sized piles.” Val took a drag of his cigarette, “Its good for business.”

“Would you rather fuck money, or me?” Vox’s screen glitched.

Val leaned his elbows on his knees, “That’s a really difficult question for me and I think you know that.”

“Augh! Val! Think of the big picture! That obsolete dickhead gaining attention means gaining power. And that’s bad for business.”

Val’s eyes fluttered, “What if we like, say it wasn’t him?”

Flashes of Alastor’s face fazed in and out of focus across Vox’s screen, your body flipping over, a mess of tentacles writhing.

Val took off his glasses, “Oh yeah, that’s pretty obviously him.”

“What is?” Vox’s face splintered back to the screen.

“Do you—- do you not know you’ve been like,” Val used his cigarette to gesture at Vox’s face, “just straight up playing his porno?”

Vox’s hands flew to his screen, “No! Fucking shit! What the fuck!!” He picked up a vase and threw it across the room, “Wipe it clean off the server! Delete it! Ban it’s fucking streaming! End of discussion!”

Val shrugged, he owned every bootleg distributor in the pride ring. He’d pull it and up the price threefold for illegal downloads. “Whatever you want, amorcito.”

Alastor was quite happy the video went ‘underground’ of sorts. The first month after you left, he was plagued by the sound of your voice. Everywhere he went it seemed you were screaming his name, every phone and television a conduit for you.

What really bothered him though, was the reaction others had to him. Where once sinners leapt from his path and set theirselves on fire to avoid him, now people winked and waved. It made his skin crawl. When alive, at the peak of his radio show fame, it wasn’t uncommon to have fans approach him in jazz clubs. But the decorum of 1930's jazz fans was a far cry from the brazen displays of desire from the citizens of hell.

“Perhaps I should have thought it through?” He mused.

“Ya think?” Rosie put her tea down, “Was it worth it, at least?”

He mulled the question over. Worth it? Well, he had your soul. Which is grand. But you weren’t even in hell to be called upon. What did he really get from the deal? Alastor brought his palm to his face, already feeling the blush spreading. Rosie's chuckle didn't help. He did get something. You'd been gone a month, and each day he woke up having forgot you existed. And every night he lied down to rest and imagined your eyes staring back at him. Did he want to fight you, or surrender, when he saw that look? When the silk tie had fallen from your face, slipping down your nose to reveal your intense stare...He thought his heart had stopped. For every ounce of resilience in your voice he found a pound of fury in your gaze. What poor luck Valentino had been given to receive you as an offering.

"Too soon to tell." He leaned back, finally dropping his hand.

“Well it seemed you had a good time… not that I could see much through the green glow and all that static noise. Really spoiled the climax with that move, Alastor dear."

Alastor’s eyes were saucers, “Rosie. Are you implying-,”

“What?” She drew out the word, “I thought you weren’t into those things so of course I was curious!”

He sighed, “I’m not.”

Rosie pushed the teaspoon around her cup with one finger, “Sure looked like you were.”

He crossed his arms, indignant, “You don’t have to have an appetite to enjoy a meal.”

“Message received loud and clear dear! I won’t bring up the subject again.” She cackled and changed the topic to the latest gossip around the colony.

Another night staring at the ceiling, mind ghosting over the idea of you. He felt like he his sanity was unraveling Leaving his bed, he stepped barefoot onto the grass of the swampy forest he materialized into his room when he moved in to the hotel.

With an outstretched hand, Alastor felt for your connection. He couldn’t see it, but the weight of the chain connecting your soul to him sunk into his palm. Curious, he wrapped his fingers around the invisible links and pulled.

With a soft green glow, you rose from the grass.

His breath hitched, he hadn’t expected that. “It seems our deal really did stick, didn't it?" walking towards you, Alastor dropped to his knees at your feet. You were on your side, unmoving.

His head cocked to the left, ears turned in. Alastor crawled toward you, rolling you onto your back and opening your legs. He slotted himself there, “Hellooo,” He took your face in his both of his hands, elbows resting beside your ears, “Are you… sleeping, dear?”

This is ridiculous.

Alastor inspected your face; peaceful. It was a new sight for him, he'd really only ever seen you in some kind of rage or lost in pleasure. His hand slid down your body, realizing you were in the robe still. He laughed, but realized it was for no one. "Are you really going to sleep, hmm?" He hooked his hands under your knee and brought it up around his hip.

Nothing.

"I'm starting to get offended, dear." He leaned down and whispered into the crook of your neck. "If you don't wake up-" He slid down, the robe open enough to let his breathe ghost over your stomach. He stopped. He couldn't do anything to you while you slept. It was void of any enjoyment for him. Without your reactions, it was just....pointless. While he did enjoy your performance in the studio, he was taught to show respect for those of fairer means. A sleeping partner fell into that category.

He reached beneath you and straightened your robe that had bunched there under your body. Placing your leg back down by your ankle, he began pulling the collar up and closed it snuggly.

He stood there for a second, looking over you. It worked. You're here again. His mother had taught him that the human soul was most vulnerable at night. When asleep, the soul could wander from the body and travel earth and beyond. She even said people could train themselves, and with practice, remember their journeys even after waking.

Kneeling down, Alastor pushed your hair from your face, "Don't forget. What fun is there in that?" The shadow beneath your body shimmered neon green before you were swallowed by inky darkness and Alastor was once again, alone.

After his mother died, Alastor was often alone. Most of his time, really. Well, there were people always around. But they were staff, or hangers-on, or women looking for a comfortable life. They were dancers and bootleggers and musicians. Which was fine and grand. But, they never saw him. He never let them, they never tried. He was the radio host. The great dancer. The southern gentleman. The killer. The cannibal. The deer in the woods. Not a single person ever looked at him on earth and saw him. Which was precisely what he wanted, and manufactured with his wide smile and good manners.

So when your eyes bore into him from that tacky studio set, and he felt suddenly naked in front of you, he knew you were looking at the him. You saw him.

It was worth it. Alastor was willing to admit that to himself.

Over the next couple days, he would randomly try to pull you to him. Through out the day, in different places, he would summon your soul and wait. Nothing. It confirmed his theory, your soul was only able to leave your living body while you were asleep.

In the privacy of his room, Alastor paced the space between grass and carpet. What was this feeling? Nerves? He hadn't felt nervous since he was a child.

But, what was causing him a pause, was if he summoned you and you didn't appear. Maybe it had been a fluke? Maybe for the 7th time in 3 days he would pull on that connection and be left standing there, alone.

Still.

He ran his hands through his hair, trying to regain composure. Finally, he reached out for your ties to him, and pulled you into hell.

He held his breath, unconsciously.

With a glow, you appeared again before him. He was quick this time to approach you, setting beside you and leaning close to your face. Asleep.

"Is this my foreseeable future?" He asked, "Staring at you while you sleep, my doe."

Suddenly, you opened your eyes and met his. Reaching up, you grabbed him with both hands and pulled his face into yours. Your hands ran through his hair as you took him in a frenzied kiss. Alastor froze for a beat, but when your tongue licked at his bottom lip, he was brought back to the moment. He pushed his tongue into your mouth, rolling over yours and reaching as deep as he could. He felt like he could unhinge his jaw and swallow you whole. He really could, if he wanted to.

Alastor swung his leg over your body and straddled your hips. "Mon cher, you've finally joined me." His chest was rising and falling with excited breath.

"Alastor?" You tried to feel your body, but it was nowhere near you.

"Don't worry your pretty little head. You're still alive and well. I've merely borrowed your soul for the evening." He looked down at you, and finally, for the first time in what felt like months, your eyes fell to his face.

But today, they were soft and out of focus.

"Can you see me, my dear?" He leaned down slightly, trying to read the look on your face.

"Am I dreaming?"

He chuckled, "Perhaps we both are." With an exhale he wondered if he had been holding his breath this entire time. "No, this isn't a dream."

"I don't understand...but--," You lifted your arms towards him, "Should I say thank you? It was fucked, what happened." Your voice was slow, words a little slurred, "But, I'm home safe and sound now. You did what you promised me. I don't know if I'll ever see you again so...should I thank you now?"

Your tongue felt fat in your mouth, heavy and delayed.

Alastor leaned down over you, "You don't have to say anything." He used his knees to open your legs, and settled there. "Unfortunately, you've become a little worm in my mind." His hands slid under the silk robe you hadn't stopped wearing yet, "I'm hoping if I finally have you, I can...whet my appetite, and return to my normal self." He felt along your hips, hands stopping when he realized you were naked under the thin piece of fabric.

"I keep remembering," you covered your eyes with your hands, "that big hand of yours. And I realize, you never touched me past that."

He smiled, genuinely, truly, "Exactly! You understand the problem precisely. Shall we both have our fill and be done with it?"

You moved your hands to touch his ears, waiting for him to disappear at any moment, "Please. I'm so tired of missing someone I don't even know." He removed your hands, and you held them to your chest.

"My thoughts exactly, mon cher." He adjusted his hips, letting his crotch rub against your core. This was the closest he had been to you since you'd met. It was dizzying, and it felt like his skin was vibrating everywhere it met yours.

A soft moan left your throat, causing his cock to twitch in his pants. Yes, it was you. This wasn’t his standard response to such sounds. Alastor sat up, his legs bent and knees at either side of your hips. Taking one of your hands from your chest, he placed a kiss on a digit. Then another. He kissed his way down your arm.

“So gentle. Weird.” You tried to focus on him, but your mind was still cloudy. The sensations were here but also so far away, too far away, in another lifetime all together.

“Was I not gentle before, all things considered?,” he continued his way down your arm.

You let your eyes drift to the sky, stars watching you from above, “More than him.”

His mouth went dry at the mention of Val, "I am many things more than him, darling." As his lips found your neck, he took a deep breath. "I can actually take my time now. No audience." He sucked a bruise, and released you with a pop. He presented two fingers to your lips, and without thinking about it you began to suck them. While you were slipping your tongue over and between his fingers, he moved to continue a trail of kisses and nips down your right arm.

"Get them nice and wet." He watched through half lidded eyes as you licked his long fingers. He knew he needed to remove his hips from yours, but the idea pained him. Finally, he took his fingers from you and swiped them over your entrance. Your chest jumped, so he did it again. He tried to push the fingers into you, but the resistance was more than he expected. You were wet, but tight. He let his middle finger slip inside you. So soft. So warm. His shadow tendrils allowed him some feeling but not this, this was something they kept to themselves.

"When was your last time, mon cher?"

Your mind searched for memories still left behind in your body somewhere, "In hell."

"You're in hell now."

"This doesn't feel like hell." You ground your hips onto his palm, trying to get that single digit slowly moving in you to come deeper, to become more. He replied by pushing in his pointer finger, erection becoming painful already as you let out a little moan. Bending them up, he began to make long thrusts past your g-spot. His mouth long stilled on your arm, staring at your face as you whimpered into the sky.

"Look at me."

Your eyes darted to him, half open and wet. Alastor felt his patience snap. Undoing his belt and zipper, he finally freed his cock. He ran his head between your entrance to your clit , gathering your fluids on him to ease his entry. Taking both of your legs, he held them at the ankles and set them on his left shoulder. With your hips slightly raised, he pressed into you.

With a hiss you dug your fingers into the dirt, body tensing instinctively. One of his arms hugged your legs to his chest, the other was now bruising your hips as he continued to push into you. With just his head in, he began fast and shallow thrusts. Every time making more progress into your warmth. The stretch burned, but the feeling of him forcing space into you for himself just made you wetter.

Finally, he bottomed out. He had no sense to still himself, shallow thrusts gave way to long, deep plunges. Alastor's breathing was filling the space around you, mixing with your own. Leaning back, he looked down at where you two were connected.

He withdrew slowly, nearly entirely, and pushed back in. Again. And again. It was intoxicating, how he felt himself melt into you. He'd had lovers in life, but never had he been with someone without a barrier of some sorts. Be that his well placed smile or latex. He'd never fucked anyone raw before. He almost regretted not trying earlier, as the sensation of your walls and arousal sticking to his cock and thighs was breaking him. Watching himself entirely disappear inside you, he closed his eyes. Everything was so hot, so tight, would he disappear entirely? Would he lost in the pleasure your body was so effortlessly giving? Was he the unlucky one?

Alastor pushed your knees up to your chest, using his body weight to hold them down as his paced picked up. You brought your dirtied nails to your own legs, holding on tightly. Desperately you needed something to tether you to the ground, keep you still against the twitches shaking your stomach and chest. You felt with any jolt to your nerves you'd fall off the world and drift into the night.

He felt the build up, his balls tightening and drawing in, he wanted to slow down-- he wanted to bring you there first but he couldn't stop the rutting of his hips. With a whine, Alastor's forehead came to rest on yours, hips smacking into you with a wet slap. "Look at me," He commanded again, and you obeyed. One of his hands came to your chin to hold your head still, "Don't you dare look away."

Struggling to keep your eyes open, he pushed into you with one final, deep thrust. His hands came down now to the ground around you as he pushed you into the grass. Hips stuttering, cock twitching in you. You'd never let anyone cum inside you before, the sensation of heat quickly filling your cunt made you tighten around him. "Good girl", He purred, jaw tight.

He pulled back slowly before bringing his hips down, sweat sticking to his forehead where it met yours. His pace was quickly becoming brutal, a hand finding its way to that little bud of nerves of yours. With rough pressure and hurried speed his thumb drew out your orgasm. When you came, you gasped out his name, craning your neck up to ghost your lips over his open mouth. As the pleasure surged from your center, you could feel your body again. He tried to keep his eyes on your eyes, but the overstimulation of your cunt trying to wring him dry forced him to shut them.

A light shone through his eyelids, startling them open again.

"Wait-!" He watched you get pulled away from beneath him. Before he could react, Alastor was on all fours in the forest, alone. Eyes wide, he pounded his fist against the grass. He tried to summon you back to him, to drag you to him but nothing happened.

He thought he'd gone crazy. Hands came to his head, smile pained as he tried to process what he was feeling.

No.

Not enough.

Too soon.

A growl ripped through his chest. This hadn't satiated him at all. No, he was worse off now. He was starved, he had nourishment ripped from his mouth and he as angry for it. Angry to hell, to Valentino, to the conditions of owning a living soul.

He did not even attempt to rest that night. Taking his time, he had to find composure again. Alastor managed to pull himself together after several hours of self isolation. After his heart stopped racing, after his hands stopped feeling phantom skin beneath them, he calmed his smile and went about his day.

When night returned, he couldn't help but stare into the forest domain. He wanted so badly to bring you to himself, but that want was terrifying. It was overpowering him, and he couldn't accept that.

Another night left, another day passed. Husk found Alastor's cruelty to be growing, his patience giving out at the smallest perceived slight. Angel stopped engaging entirely. Charlie found herself wanting to approach him, find out why it seemed his hair was always standing on end, his eyes sharp. But, she didn't. She couldn't. Alastor would pass through the halls like a raging specter. He wouldn't slow or acknowledge anyone.

He managed a week. Satisfied with his resolve, he waited for when night fell and he was sure you'd be deep asleep, yanked your soul from your body and into him. He felt rabid, like he his brain was catching fire. Finally when you materialized before him, he grabbed your face with his hand.

"My doe?"

Just like before, you stirred, and your hands immediately went for his hair. He pulled back, "Are you awake?"

"Am I dreaming? Alastor?" You looked drunk, mind struggling to process the change in scenery. Your arms wrapped around his neck as he hovered above you, and you pulled him into a kiss. He happily returned it, hands quick to untie the robe you had taken as your own. He wasted now time in getting himself unsheathed and lined up with you, before he could enter you reached out to him, "I wanted to say--- thank you. I don't know if I'll ever really see you again."

The realization made his blood run cold. His mother's stories flooded back to him. It takes training, and time, to remember the travels of the wandering soul.

"You don't have to say anything." Alastor thrust into you, your body tense but not as resistant as before. When he was finally enveloped in you, he could feel himself calm. He didn't feel any need to be gentle this time around. He immediately set a bruising pace, digging his nails into the soft flesh of your ass as he forced your hips to meet his with every thrust. You gasped beneath him, eyes wandering up to the sky just past his head. He'd bring you to climax, wanting to drink in your expression, and to his horror as you choked out his name you were spirited away from him again.

Everyone on the floor heard Alastor's rampage. When Angel ran to get Charlie and Vaggie, they were scared to knock. With a steadying breath Charlie rapped the door, "Al? You okay in there?"

Suddenly, silence.

The door whipped open, Alastor smiling with half lidded eyes, "Why of course. What ever made you think otherwise?"

"The fuckin' sounds of carnage, maybe?" Angel looked past Alastor. The sofa shredded, coffee table in pieces. The wallpaper had been ripped down and torn to shreds. Charlie noticed the dirt under his nails, but Alastor coolly pulled his hands behind his back.

"Can I do something for you?" His tone was cold.

"I guess not, Al...," Charlie took in the damage, "Did something happen?"

Alastor smiled wider, "No," and closed the door. No one saw him the following day, which wasn't entirely unusual but it was weighing on Charlie. When Alastor finally appeared and announced he was going to Cannibal Town, she was elated. A chat with Rosie would surely bring him back to himself.

"I don't see the problem. You've got her soul, you can summon her to you, and you get a little," She searched for the word, "relief. Why do you look so pained, old friend?"

"You know better than most I have no interest in chasing women, Rosie."

"Yet..." She cocked her brow.

"It isn't about the release. I don't particularly need that. I never have." He huffed, the conversation already exhausting him, "When I would kill someone, I was God. Their life was in my hands. I took that power from them."

Rosie clicked her tongue, "And when she's in your hands?" Alastor hunched over his black coffee before remembering himself and straightening his back. "I've never seen you like this before, hun. You've got it bad, huh?"

"Personal connections like this, Rosie, are dangerous. I lost my self restraint entirely. It's a weakness." He fought to regain his smile, never knowing who could be passing by.

She tutted him, "Oh no, that's where you're wrong. The difference between a strong man and an unstoppable man is having something to care about." Rosie leaned over and set her hand on top of his, "Imagine you walked into Val's studio right now and found her like you did a couple months ago. How would you react?"

His stomach wretched forward, if he saw you today, hanging from the ceiling? The stench of Valentino's cigarette smoke clinging to your hair, the marks where his hands had made contact with you? His hand under her's tightened, claws leaving marks into the wooden tabletop. "Do you feel weak right now, Alastor?" The hair on his ears was standing straight up, his now black eyes met hers, "You sure don't look it."

He’d remembered hearing something similar before from Vaggie. Could it be true? It was a precarious ladder. If he let himself be close to someone, then the person is in turn close to him, then that person knows him intimately, and then— they are a walking soft spot. Someone could take them and torture them for information. Or, hurt them to hurt him.

But, who would dare? A fire rose in chest at the thought. What was the point of power if he couldn’t have what he wanted? If he had to answer to others about his desires? To pursue strength and status was what he wanted but if that strength didn’t afford him freedom than what good was it, really?

"I say, not that you asked," Rosie smiled and withdrew her hand, "Could be nice to have a little company now and then. Plus, better than waiting 60 years or something for her to just die." She shrugged, "Now, eat. You look like a shit."

Rosie had a point, while your existence was fragile, it was still available to him.

For awhile, he would call you nightly. Alastor would fuck you into the grass, beneath the trees, under the stars. He learned your orgasm would wake you, and he would draw it out as long as he could. He'd edge you for hours, watching you sob for your release. Slowly, your consciousness became more and more solid during your meetings.

To his relief, his hunger for your presence calmed over time. He could handle a week or even two without sharing your company, and he noticed each time you seemed to recognize him more. You'd participate more, moan louder, scream his name and squirm from the pleasure. He relished trapping you underneath his wide shoulders, pulling you onto his lap as he fucked up into you.

He wasn't fond of the few times he summoned you and you were already wet, or smelling of cologne. He'd tease, "Lonely?" and when he'd fuck his back cum into you before helping you chase your own orgasm, he'd remind you, "You're mine, little doe. No one can replace me." And he'd feel his chest swell. Others had your body for the night, but your soul was his forever. With every meeting, he felt more like himself. And the nights you were screaming his name in the forest, and his horns were looming over you as he marked you over and over as his, he felt powerful.

Some nights, he'd call you to him to just let you rest. He'd enjoy a book, or some jazz over a meal, while you lied quietly in his bed.

The days he pulled you into hell and your hair smelled of the trees, of sweat and dirt, he would be gentler. He could feel the ache in your muscles, the tan on your cheeks, and sent you back.

One such night came, where he of course took your chains in his hand and tugged. But this time, when you arrived, your face was painted with anger. You were asleep still, and even when he whispered to you, you didn't wake. You were having a nightmare, from what he could tell. He took you to his bed, and let you settle.

You stayed there until waking up again in your bed.

And every night that week, he'd bring you to his bed and go about his tasks while you fought some demons in your head. He'd never seen you have a nightmare, and began to wonder if something was happening in the overworld.

Alastor was enjoying a deer carcass in his room, humming softly to himself, when a green light erupted on the floor.

He was well aware it wasn't night anymore, and that he hadn't brought you here. With a soft smile, he left his meal and approached the light. Slowly, your body rose from the darkness there. Not just your soul.

When you looked up at him, a smile on your lips and two small doe ears on your head, he grinned, "Did you miss me terribly, my little doe?" He offered you a hand up, "Welcome home.”

༻Masterlist༺

[sanjisprincesswifey]

valentine's day

summary: spending valentine's day with the monster trio

notes: sanji, zoro, & luffy x implied female reader (separately), pure fluff

black leg sanji

sanji may know your favorite flower or candy, but he remains a teddy bear, roses, and box of chocolates kind of guy 

for sanji, it’s the idea that you deserve love in its purest form; that all he wants to give you is the love people see in movies or read in books

it’s about the sentiment; he could give you your favorite flowers or candy any other day (and he does). today, on valentine’s day, it’s about him and how he wants to show you he loves you 

he’ll plan a nice, romantic dinner that includes a sweet wine, dimly lit candles, and a meal perfectly curated for your palettes

again, to sanji it’s his way of proving to you that he loves you; he’s so in love with you, in fact, that you’re worthy of the love that others only dream of having. so tonight’s meal has been in preparation for weeks before the actual date 

he can’t help but stray from the basics and put his own touches on everything. 

sanji gets all giggly and flustered while he leaves small presents around the ship for you to find. small is a loose term though, in actuality the presents probably cost thousands of berry 

finally, he pulls a couple all nighters to write you a handwritten love letter. it obviously starts off as a proclamation of his love and obsession with you, but around the second page he begins to explain just how much you mean to him. how he’s changed for the better and learned to love both himself and life so much more now that he has you. 

the day consists of being wrapped up in your boyfriends long limbs practically every minute of the day, so many kisses you swear his lips must be tired, and words even sweeter than the candy he gives you

roronoa zoro

zoro gets lost walking on a straight path, you think he’ll remember a holiday? 

i don’t know if he even knows what day it is normally 

since he doesn’t even know what day it is, that most likely means he doesn’t even have a gift for you

sorry babe, but if you want to have a nice date you will have to plan it yourself 

however, if you mention your concerns to someone who is more situationally aware (cough, cough, nami, robin, or sanji), he may remember to get you a gift 

albeit, it won’t be wrapped and will most likely still be wearing the price tag, but it is a gift regardless

that being said, roronoa zoro is incredibly sentimental in his gift giving. just because he may be a bit forgetful does not mean that he doesn’t love you

he loves you so much he doesn’t need a day to remind you of that; he tells you every day in the way that he interacts with you 

considering how much he loves you, remember to give him some reassurance about his airhead-ness. he doesn’t want to admit it, but he was actually a little worried it might jeopardize your relationship 

monkey d luffy

knows valentine’s day is important to you so he’ll celebrate with you, but otherwise doesn’t really care much for the holiday besides all the candy, of course

luffy can’t be trusted with any money nami gives him as he’d spend it solely on meat, so he must resort to handmade gifts

but do not be fooled by the name! your captain is incredibly sweet, the handpicked flower bouquets contain all your favorite colors and all your favorite flowers. he insists on adventuring to a flower field and picking each flower individually claiming that it’ll only be right for you if he’s the one who does it

usopp, robin and nami then wrap it up all nice and pretty for that extra special touch

in classic luffy fashion, he’d also give you a box that has the appearance of a box of chocolates but inside contains a bunch of cool looking seashells or rocks that he, again, hand chose for you

no outside planning is done besides this though as dinner with luffy only sounds fun in theory; he’s a human vacuum cleaner, you wouldn’t get very far in your own meal before he’s swallowing up your food too 

he’d love for you to join him for a dance under the moonlight though

his long, rubber arms wrap around you while his body sinks into yours as you rock back and forth to the music 

and, of course, he is telling you he loves you every second of the day and every other day for the rest of your lives

ʕ•́ᴥ•̀ʔっ like this post? send me a request!

[soapskneebrace]

playing the quiet game

Pairing: Price x f!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 2.9k Warnings: Dominant/submissive dynamics, established relationship, implied kink pre-negotiation, a LOT of fingering (f!receiving), a lil Price angst Tagging: @dilfconisuer who I teased with this a while back, and fellow Price simps @yeyinde @guyfieriii @alittleposhtoad Author’s Notes: I shit you not, the clock struck midnight January 1st and fireworks started going off in the middle of writing the orgasm. Happy new year! Enjoy the smut.

Now on AO3!

The world is soft and cozy as you come back into it, a little fuzzy from over-washing and dyed in the cool tones of early morning. You’re in that delicious place at the edge of sleep, mind swaying between dreams and reality, body languid and draped on your side across the bed. Touch is the first sense that comes back to you—a warm weight at your back, hips flush with your rear and legs bent along the contours of your own. You shift a little, to give yourself an excuse to settle against it.

“Mm,” John murmurs as he notices you stir, mouth against your neck, nuzzling you slowly with the wiry brush of his facial hair. The hum of his voice is low enough to vibrate between your shoulder blades.

“Mm?” you respond, scent returning next. The new detergent he’s using, gentle and mildly floral, and the fresh pine of the shampoo he washed his hair with last night. The ever-present smokey molasses that’s permanently seeped into his skin. You keep your eyes closed, saving sight for later, imagining that as long as you see nothing, John and the sheets you’re both wrapped up in can be the only thing that exists.

His hand rests on your ribcage, and smooths its way down your hip and thigh. It travels back up again, then retreats—rhythmic, even, fingers dipping and spreading at the curves and valleys of your body. It’s at the same tempo as your breath, which is normalizing as more of your mind picks reality to set up in. You can feel him breathing, too, chest rising and falling against your back, warm exhales fanning across the bare expanse of skin he’s claimed with his mouth and mutton chops.

Down your ribcage, along your hip, and back up. His other arm, you discover as you shift again, is propping him up, forearm wormed into the wedge of empty space between your neck and shoulder and the bed. His knee nudges the back of your thigh.

He paints another soft, prickly kiss on your neck, and rubs his chin and cheek into your jaw. You don’t hide the moan it inspires.

“Keep it down,” he whispers. His hand splays on your thigh. “Thin walls, love.”

You make another noise, lower, somewhere in your throat. His hand is warm on your bare skin, soft and sturdy as it travels along your body, not quite kneading but giving enough pressure to sink in, to meld your flesh like clay with every pass.

“John,” you murmur. “Mm. John…”

“Shh,” he breathes into your ear.

You feel his lips on your neck again, feel his hand divert from its established path to smooth across your belly. The spread of his fingers is wide enough to graze the underside of one breast, and you can’t help the little inhale of anticipation you give. At the same, even rhythm, John drags the flat of his hand down your stomach to its lowest border, and you forget to breathe at all for that little minute before, once again, his touch retreats from whence it came.

His mouth parts on your neck. The hot graze of his tongue meets your skin before the press of his teeth claims the space, and his hand travels just a little lower with the next pass.

Some part of you wonders if you should figure out what John has in mind right now, compare it to what you actually have time for. Off-duty or not, you’re still on base. But then the top of his thigh aligns flush with the back of yours; and you realize, the thought settling into the soft place in your mind between sleep and waking, that he would be doing none of this if he had cause not to. He already knows that you love waking up like this. He knows what circumstances in which he should not wake you up like this. When it comes to you, John Price remains in comfortable, considerate control—and leaves you only with the task of saying yes, please or not now, thank you. He has never asked you to figure out the right place or the right time.

You don’t have to worry about anything. John has already worried about it for you. Your head feels light, airy; you’d think you were slipping back into sleep, if it didn’t suddenly feel like your skin was electrified. It’s a feeling that always comes with letting go and letting him be in charge.

“John,” you murmur again, the breath in your lungs escaping, the sigh mimicking the same one he always draws from you when you finally surrender.

The seal over your skin he has with his lips and teeth gives a sharp pull. “Someday I’ll figure out how to keep you quiet,” he says, low and amused as he disconnects.

The smile that rests against your skin sends sparks dancing across your scalp.

“Don’t stop,” you say, the quiet tone of your voice laced with a yearning you can’t conceal. “Please, John…”

His palm crests the jut of your hip and glides back inward, downward, fingertips skimming the crease of your thighs. The nerves there jump to meet him, buzzing suddenly with too much energy for your still half-asleep mind to moderate. He seals his mouth over a new spot on your neck, dragging the flat of his tongue, blistering hot, along your skin.

“You’re going to leave marks,” you breathe.

“The gear covers them up,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety purr. “Be good for me, love.”

Euphoria blooms hot across your face. “Yes, John.”

He growls a little, pleased with you, and his fingers dip into your panties and between your folds.

The jerk your leg gives is involuntary. John curls his leg further inward to meet it, to keep it pushed upward, as the heat of his broad hand cups your sex. You feel the tip of one finger trace along your perineum, and a whimper makes its way out of your throat before his other hand wraps around your jaw, tilts your head backward. His mouth finds your ear, the stubble pricking at delicate cartilage.

“Not going to tell you again,” he murmurs, just a little bit of the Captain leaking into his tone. “Quiet down. Aye?”

A shiver races down your spine, makes a home in your sacrum. You nod, as much as you can in his grip. You understand the shape of his control, the intention of it; he’s not looking for a verbal affirmation, and to give one would incur consequences. You’re not opposed to his consequences—often, they’re as sweet as his rewards. But right now you want to bask in this submission, want to earn what he’s already set on giving you.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, tracing your lips with his index finger. His other hand kneads your pussy, that same up-and-down motion that he woke you up with, and his mouth returns to your neck, teeth sinking into another sliver of unmarked skin.

You settle into him, push your pelvis forward just a little, hoping he sees it for the offer it is rather than the demand it could be mistaken for. He chuckles against you, and teases one finger between your labia, brushes your entrance before flicking upward to surprise your clit. It makes your leg jerk again, and John only takes the opportunity to wrap around you more tightly. You feel him then, against your ass, in the cleft of it—he’s hard as iron, and ramrod-erect.

You suck your lips between your teeth, swallow, exhale a shaky breath from your nose. Pleasure radiates from the tips of his fingers, from the flex of his palm, as he traces the outlines of your sex at a pace too leisurely for early-morning sensitivity to handle. But you won’t make a sound. You’re going to be good for him. The ache between your legs begins to throb, and John must feel it, because finally he presses the pads of two fingers against your clit.

Your hips jerk against him. Sound almost makes it out of you. A gasp, a sharp inhale, but you swallow it down, and John smiles against you. He releases his teeth from you, presses a soft kiss beneath your ear, and takes up the same rhythm he’s been maintaining this whole time, a slow, steady caress that you want to whine at. His hand slides down to your throat, dwarfing the breadth of your neck—not squeezing, but monitoring. He’ll be able to feel any noise you make.

“I didn’t say you had to be silent, love,” he murmurs, fingers sliding down from your clit to swirl around your entrance—and squelching loud enough to let you both know that you’re drenched. “You just need to remember who that noise belongs to.”

You gasp when he slides a thick finger into you with not a moment of warning. “You—ah—you have to be specific, John,” you whisper, hyper-aware of your walls fluttering around him as he languidly pumps in and out of you. “I can’t be good for you if I don’t know the rules—ohh.”

He pushes in to the knuckle, curls his finger against the spot that has black spots dancing across your vision. Before they can blend together, overtake you, he withdraws, pulls out to circle your clit again, and you only wonder for a moment if this is the new rhythm before he gives the bundle a hard tap before pushing back in again.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, mouth open on your jaw, slipping a second finger into you. You have to clench your teeth to keep your mewl from becoming a moan. “And I did just wake you up, didn’t I?”

The stretch, the burn of new fullness, steals your ability to respond. The slow thrust of his hand picks up just a little, as if he wants to make it even harder for you to reply, but you’re determined. “Mm, John,” you breathe, “Let me be good for you.”

He goes still for a moment, fingers halting inside you, body tense as a drawn bowstring, and then his hand suddenly tightens around your neck—not cutting off your air, but utterly possessive, and he hooks his knee under yours to spread your thigh outward. Immediately he’s pistoning his fingers into you alarmingly quickly, and you only remember to stifle yourself at the last moment, turning a surprised shriek into a series of quick, high-pitched mewls. He thrusts against you, grinds his cock against your ass.

“You’re always good for me,” he growls into your ear, shoving in to the knuckle, flicking wildly against your g-spot. “Even when you’re not. I don’t fuckin’ deserve you, love, not a single thing you do for me.”

You want to refute him—want to tell him everything you give him is just a return on what he’s given you. But you can’t, and the only reason you can’t is that he’s fucking the breath out of your lungs with nothing but his goddamn fingers, meanwhile his cock tucked against your ass is so hard you can practically feel the throb of blood running through it.

And anyway, he doesn’t want you to tell him. This is no morning confessional, no whispered prayer to absolve his greed for you. He isn’t saying this because he thinks he’s taking advantage of you—it’s just the naked truth of what John believes, laid bare as if in offering. It’s the best way he knows how to tell you he adores you.

He’s explained all of this. You’ve told him he needs therapy. He’s laughed, and he’s agreed.

“Just don’t stop taking any of it,” you whisper, turning your head, finally opening your eyes to see his face, to drink in the muss of warm brown hair and the fray of uncombed beard. A gentle blue gaze, incongruous with the furor of his hand between your legs, meets yours. “Just don’t stop taking me.”

Dark brows draw together, etching a crease into his forehead. That blue becomes electric. “Never,” he growls, and takes your mouth with his.

His hand leaves your throat to join the other, and a third finger enters you as he resumes the massage on your clit that he’d left off. His tongue sweeps along the ridge of your teeth, probes inward to dance along your own, and at the same time he spreads his fingers inside of you, stretching you so far that you don’t think there isn’t a place in you that he isn’t touching. You think he’s filled your entire body with just his fingers, because there isn’t room in you anymore for your lungs to expand beyond shallow, whining breath. Your legs are shaking of their own accord, muscles twitching every time his fingers brush just the right spot on your clit, and you know he’s realized what he’s found when the flicker of his touch does not leave that spot.

You moan, low and breathy, keeping the sound in the back of your throat. You feel nothing but John, know nothing but the warmth of his arms caging you against his body, the searing burn of his fingers stretching you almost as wide as his cock can. His body is moving with yours, his hips pressing yours forward, shoving you farther into his hands and onto his fingers. The sheets are a mess of wrinkles around your moving bodies, and you finally remember your own arms, your own hands as they’re gripping the fabric without your input.

When your touch finds his forearms, when your nails dig into the broad muscle of them, you feel it coming fast. It’s fluttering around his fingers, pulling tight against the muscles in your thighs. Foreshocks have your body undulating against his, and you know, when his fingers thrust deep and stay there, that he can feel it coming, too.

“That’s it love,” he growls into your lips, kissing you between words. Three fingers curl into you, and you wonder if your body can break apart from the pleasure of their simple pressure behind your clit. “You’re being fucking perfect—I can feel it, fuck—come on, you’ve more than earned it, come for me—”

And all it takes for you then is his words, the rasp of his breath against your mouth, for ecstasy to explode in you from the tips of his fingers, pleasure bursting outward in a shockwave that wracks your entire body. Your breath comes short and quick as it takes you, and you whimper John’s name until he kisses you again, saving you from having to control your own volume as you lose control over everything else. He keeps fucking you as you shudder against his body, keeps up the frantic pace of his thrusting hand and the vice-like pressure he has around your clit, sending aftershocks across your body that keep you shaking and near-sobbing against his mouth. He does not let you get away from it, does not let you escape his hands, and does not stop until you go limp and boneless in his arms.

You come back to yourself, eons later, still breathing hard, panting in sync with John. His hold on you has slackened, arms still around you but loose enough that it’s easy—if not prompt, as it still feels like your muscles are jelly—to turn over to face him. He’s gazing at you, as if he wants to drink you in with his eyes alone, and that gaze is heavy-lidded and content. Neither of his hands have gone southward, searching for his cock or his own release. This is not unusual. He’s told you before that he knows he’ll get his eventually. And you know by now, too, that sometimes John finds more satisfaction in your orgasm than his own.

Every sense has come back to you now. His facial hair is softer than it looks, as you cup the side of his face, and the smell of detergent and shampoo is mingled now with the humid weight of the perspiration you two have worked up. The taste of him—you realized belatedly that he must have gotten up and brushed his teeth before this, because it’s lightly minty—is still on your tongue. His breath is heavy, but even and quieter than yours, obscured somewhat by your own pulse thrumming loud in your ears.

But the best experience is the sight of him—painted in the warming tones of a day starting to get on, t-shirt tight across his chest, skin a little flushed and shimmery with moisture. He smiles at you, blue eyes liquid with open affection, as you stroke his mustache. He’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“I can’t believe you did that with your fucking fingers,” you laugh.

The smile spreads, creasing at the corners of his eyes. “I’m glad you let me.”

It’s a softness that he always expresses after he’s done anything to you. Whatever he thinks he deserves from you, he never hides his gratitude for what you give him.

When you lean in to kiss him, he meets you halfway. It’s a kiss that he lingers in, lips moving softly against yours as one hand comes to rest lightly on the back of your neck. Your elbows don’t want to prop you up for much longer, though, and you have to break away to lay your head back down.

“Good morning, John,” you say, smiling softly.

He shifts, moves closer, eyes tender as they remain settled on you. “Good morning, love.”

[sailoryooons]

Gods of the Dark | Series Masterlist | myg (m)

☾ Pairing: Dream god!Yoongi x f. human!reader

☾ Summary: Don’t ask for help in the dark. It’s an old tale you always heard whispered among the people of your village. But when you find yourself dragged kicking by the man you’re to marry, you have little choice but to beg for help long after the sun has set. The god who answers your pleas promises to save you, but every deal comes with a price. 

☾ Total Word Count: 43,049 and counting

☾ Genre: Fantasy, angst, strangers to lovers, smut

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Series Warnings: Sexist and patriarchal society inspired by medieval europe, a lot of world building and discussion about theories/concept of dreams, discussions of morals and ethics, world building, angst, intense fight scenes, mentions/light depictions of an abusive family, discussions of gender roles and forced marriages, sexually explicit content, themes of corruption and indulgence, depictions of hedonism, discussions of sexual and sensual pleasure, Yoongi is a deity of dreams and desires. Each chapter will have its own warning.  

☾ A/N: This series is in part inspired by The Invisible Life of Addie La Rue but heavily influenced by The Sandman by Neill Gaiman and the song Lilith by Halsey ft. SUGA

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Masterlist | Ask | Playlist | Teaser | Tag Lists

Chapter One

→ You will go to the altar, even if you're dragged there kicking and screaming. Yet a god intervenes and offers a deal.

Chapter Two

→ Life back home isn't what you expected it to be - and you have a new talent to practice.

[serawritesthings]

AS FAR AS DREAMS GO, second part

Pairing | arthur morgan x fem! reader Summary | It hadn’t been a dream that night. Despite you and Arthur’s efforts to steer clear from each other, it proves futile as a horrible incident brings you to the realization that your misunderstanding that once hurt so severely paled as you realize you might lose each other forever. Tags |  sexual content 18+ minors dni, angst, fluff, smut, graphic description of violence and wounds Word Count | 17.5k A/N | Hello everyone! It’s about time I posted the second part of this fic, which will be the last part. Sorry for taking craaazy long to write it, but I have been working a lot recently, so it’s been taking me some time to put it together. I had some trouble writing this and didn't really know where I wanted to take the story, so I hope it’s still readable. Thanks for reading! Part one

You saw love for the first time in that cold, desolated cabin. However, the moment was brief when it was swept away from you, too fast for you to bask in the warmth it brought to your untouched heart. Just like the candle lit up the cold house with its all-too-quickly fading light, it had ignited something in you - something you hadn’t felt in a long time. You had been sure it was a good dream finally coming to you, a dream to heal the troubles that plagued your mind endlessly, saving you from the hold your memories have on you. Every touch of Arthur’s fingers had done that, and they had been so kind, so gentle. They grasped every part of you, filling you with a comfort that made you feel completely safe, even though it had felt like the whole world was against you outside of the wooden walls. 

Eyes have a language of their own; you were sure of it. Though it’s hard, you’re always trying to grasp that actions and thoughts may not match. It has made your perception of the world more straightforward, allowing you to see people for what they are. Just like you - but with unique experiences and thoughts. Despite all this, you failed to consider Arthur’s thoughts as you basked in the warmth and safety he emitted to you. That’s why it wounded you to see his eyes speak so differently from the words that left him. He spoke indifferently, but his eyes were angry, ever so stoic. A whisper of shame taints the memories as his now obvious disdain towards you weighs heavily on your mind. You had stepped too far, misunderstanding his signals, turning his kindness into something it wasn’t. 

It was selfish; you knew it. And now, you had to pay the price for being greedy with a man who didn’t even want you–a man who couldn’t even look at you anymore. Was his touch a momentary weakness he now regrets? You fear that in seeking refuge within his arms, you’ve shattered the already fragile bond between you. The small crack you had made in his tall, stony walls once again filled, this time sharp thorns creeping around the surface and prickling your skin as you tried to grasp the edges so you wouldn’t fall off. 

You and Arthur were just like you had been in the beginning, treading carefully around each other like the other didn’t exist - like it was inconvenient to be in each other’s presence. You ache with every second of the prolonged silence, replaying every stolen glance and shared breath. Arthur was the fire that kept you warm that night, but did you scorch his heart in return?

The night air still lingers, but now it’s wrapped in a chilling fog as the morning breeze hangs heavy with unspoken words as you prepare to leave the shelter of the cabin. Your encounter still weighed deeply on you, and although you tried to keep your mind on other things, it proved futile. With every thought of him, it was as if the ghosts of the night before hovered between, whispering secrets that danced just out of reach.  

You hadn’t slept the rest of the night; instead, you spent the small hours before dawn treading quietly through the house to distract your mind from the constant thoughts that circled in your head. The atmosphere was calm but uncanny, a lingering sense of emptiness filling you while striding through the distant memories you knew lay deep within these walls.

It was a smaller cabin, and nothing exciting hid in the dressers and side tables, as you might have hoped. You don’t know what you were looking for–maybe some letter or long-forgotten notes. Although you found nothing, everything else was in perfect shape despite the dust laying like a blanket over every surface, meaning the only person who probably knew about this place was Arthur. The house was lonely enough, and through your adrenaline-filled ride, you knew the site strayed far away from the path as only tightly grown trees surrounded you, right in the middle of the woods.

As you stepped into what looked to be the bedroom, you saw the bedside table filled with smoked cigarettes and ash surrounding it in heaps. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Arthur often stayed here, his not-so-healthy smoking addiction being a telltale sign. 

“So, this is where he stays? And, smokes?” Your observation made you giggle through your lingering sadness at the thought. He was here more often than he had insinuated, it seems. 

There were traces of him everywhere, more than you had seen in the camp. It wasn’t often he left shirts to clean or dishes to wash, nor did he have many possessions littered around. When Arthur was out, he was gone for long periods; when he wasn’t, he kept to himself most of the time. But here, his presence was overwhelming; the warm, familiar scent of him lingered, hitting you intensely. You could even see a gun lying on the floor and his all-to-familiar, blue, worn-out shirt hanging on the chair. 

Filthy was an understatement, as the dirt and sweat on it made you scrunch your nose, a displeased noise leaving you. The amount of holes in the fabric made you want to gasp and gasp even harder when you saw the blood on it. What had Arthur done to the shirt? And what had he done to himself to leave the shirt looking like that? Striding hastily from the door, you picked it up, examining it with wide eyes. You could almost fit your entire hand through the patch. 

Judging from the blood fading to a faint brownish color, it looked like the shirt had been here for quite some time. You could see a horrible attempt at stitchwork as you examined the blue fabric, but the moment you stretched it slightly, the stitches came undone as the needle that still hung from the thread fell to the floor. 

A loud voice brought you away from your thoughts as the shirt fell from your hands. Arthur shouted your name, and suddenly, you were brought back to your current predicament. The thought made you sigh heavily as you stared out the window, now blurry with frost. Facing him right now didn’t feel entirely right, but you didn’t have a choice; if you didn’t want to walk back, of course. 

With one last glance around the room, you quickly closed the door behind you and fished up the jacket you had borrowed on your way. Stepping out on the porch, you felt heavy and aching in the brisk morning breeze, gazing beyond the trees as the warm lights of the sunrise painted your surroundings with a golden hue. In front of you, Arthur was silent as he stood tall and formidable with his back towards you, adjusting the reins of Boadicea. With a clenched jaw, the brim of his hat cast a shadow under his eyes, obscuring the thoughts that churned beneath. 

The horse shifted in front of him, restless, as if sensing the charged atmosphere. You knew he heard you step out, but he made no incantation of acknowledging your presence as anxiety filled you, words leaving you before you could stop them. 

“Do you think it’s safe to go back now?” How he heard you was beyond you as your voice was slightly above a whisper, your insecurities wrapping heavily around your words. You shamed yourself for the stupid question you asked, mentally hitting yourself on the head. 

His response was a quiet grunt, barely audible, and if you were facing him, you would see the brief flicker of uncertainty that crossed his face. It was a rare glimpse of vulnerability, a crack in his armor as his heart ached at your voice. Unbeknownst to you, of course. Seeing you so careful around him now made it seem like you had just met, your anxious gaze staring uncertainly at the outlaw in front of you like the day you met.

Hesitating momentarily, you searched for the right words, but the weight pressed against your chest, choking the words before they could form. You felt so tiny where you stood, like a small ant before a giant bear. The choking of tears waited to pour out, so you kept quiet. With briefly closed eyes, you took small steps down the porch, nearing him slowly, like he would leave if you moved too hastily.

He didn’t help you up the horse, and the action made you hesitate. Usually, Arthur would have been there, a steady presence at your side, always doing his utmost to help you. Instead, he swung onto the horse briskly and waited for you to climb on behind him. You moved tentatively; you weren’t sure if your overthinking or his daunting presence made you clumsy, but it was a challenge. 

With a shaky breath, you attempted to swing your leg over the saddle, but the simple act you’d done countless times before suddenly felt impossible. Heart pounding in your chest, you cursed how your hands seemed to have a mind of their own. 

Your foot slipped, and you stumbled, your heart skipping a beat as you fought to regain your balance. The horse shifted before you, sensing your unease, and you bit down on your lip as embarrassment burned your cheeks.

Suddenly, you heard a sigh above you, and you dared to steal a glance at Arthur. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his expression unreadable, but there was a resignation in how his shoulders sagged ever so slightly like your struggle was the last thing he had the patience for. 

Without warning, a warmth enveloped your waist. Your eyes widened as his hand gently steadied you, his touch firm yet gentle. He held onto you for a fleeting moment, his fingers warm against your skin as he helped you into the saddle. Quickly, he released his hold on you, like scorched by fire. 

Now, you were the closest to him you had been since last night, although the chasm between you felt wider than ever, a gulf of unspoken emotions that you were too afraid to bridge. With a gentle nudge from Arthur, the horse moved, the rhythm of its hooves a melancholic symphony.

You stole a glance at Arthur, his jaw still set, gaze focused on the path ahead. His unreadable expression starkly contrasted the vulnerability he’d shown you just a few hours ago. What was going through his mind, you wondered to yourself. 

You could have never guessed the shame that littered his thoughts with every move; the thought of you now acting apprehensive made him want to disappear into the ground. He had shown you a part he always kept to himself, a part he only relished when the last light of day disappeared.

 God damn it, he was so foolish to think it was a dream since you had felt more real than you had ever felt. His mind raced as he tried to wreck his sense of what he could have said in his sleep for you to wake him up suddenly in the middle of the night, wondering if he had been talking about you.

He felt embarrassed, not letting himself touch you for a moment more than necessary, as he knew it would make you uncomfortable. Now, he longed for how you acted around each other before the night came, with you blabbering adoringly on with some nonsense that seemed to always lighten his mood, even though he didn’t respond most of the time. He felt stale now, shoulders hunched and hands gripping tightly on the reins as he tried to shake the thoughts of you away from his mind, unsuccessfully as per usual.

Still wary, you soon realized you didn’t know where to put your hands, fearing to touch his rigid body that tensed at every jump and unexpected movement from the horse. With a tentative exhale, you finally rest your hands on your thighs, fingers tracing the fabric of your skirt. It was a slight gesture, a silent admission of your uncertainty. The thought saddened you, and you should have appreciated his allowance of your touch the night before when you rode with him. It had been comfortable, and it was like neither of you had minded being that close to each other. It felt like years ago, but it was only a few hours. 

As the horse’s movements continued to sway beneath you, a gust of wind tugged at your hair, sending strands dancing in the breeze. Instinctively, as if seeking an anchor, your fingers brushed against the fabric of Arthur’s shirt. The touch was unintentional, almost accidental, and your heart raced as you realized what you’d done. When Arthur didn’t react, your hands stayed there, the cotton of his shirt soft against your skin.

You didn’t exchange a single word for the rest of the way, both fear and apprehension filling the air around you as it breezed. The journey felt longer than you remembered; the anxiety and adrenaline had probably clouded your judgment last night. Although it felt longer, Arthur had set a fast pace, and you wondered if it was because he wanted it to be over and to escape your presence quickly. The thought hurt you deeply, and you wished for nothing more than to be back at camp.

-

And that’s how it went; the pair of you grew further apart the longer time went on, choosing to ignore every chance of reconciliation, instead opting to go about your day as if nothing had happened. The embarrassment inside of you should have grown into disdain for the man as you brooded at the thought of his actions. Instead, you couldn’t change your thoughts about him. You adored him, even though you know he didn’t share the same feelings. It all feels melancholy, but you can’t help how you think; your emotions always have the upper hand.

Like before, all traces of him grew faint as time passed, and to be honest with yourself, you missed him. As days stretched into weeks–an unsettling awareness that Arthur’s presence was becoming ephemeral, like a fading echo in your day-to-day life. 

It started with the little things, the subtle traces of his existence that usually wove themselves into the fabric of camp life. His worn hat resting on his bed was absent. The constant smell of tobacco that lingered in the air was no longer there, replaced by the emptiness of his absence. The worn books he used to read lay untouched, collecting dust, pages waiting for fingers that never turned them anymore. The cup of coffee he’d drink in the early morning hours as you watched him from your place by the tree was now empty, cold, and abandoned. 

Insignificant as they were, these traces spoke volumes to you. They were remnants of a man slipping away, consumed by a world that demands his attention at every turn. You had noticed how the weight on everyone’s shoulders had grown heavier recently as if treading down those mountains had unleashed an avalanche on your unsuspecting shoulders. 

The workload was severe, and it seemed more often than not that things went wrong nowadays. Although it had appeared to lighten the mood for everyone to have some distance from the law, you didn’t feel like the recent time had been doing you good. More so, the lurking shadow of Micha that now constantly lingered seemed to dampen your mood even more. 

Having to move from Horseshoe Overlook was one big reason you felt uneasy. You had grown quite fond of the place but were also used to change, which made it less arduous. However, dealing with Pinkerton’s and Cornwall’s men made your stomach turn. 

All of you appeared to be in more trouble than before, and it seemed like you only increased your danger with every turn you made. You couldn’t argue that this place was better, though; the area’s remoteness makes you feel safer than you had ever been. Enclosed by a thick forest and looking out at a bay filled with small islands, you felt as if you were miles away from the closest living person. 

Huffing to yourself, you closed your eyes momentarily as you leaned back into the makeshift chair you made from some boxes behind your tent. Although you had a bed, which you made yourself stubbornly since you refused to sleep on the ground, you found work more peaceful here. You were deathly scared of bugs, and if you slept on the floor, you were sure you would become a nest for the filthy, petty demons. 

Although not a proper bed, just a blanket over some boxes, it wasn’t too comfortable, but you had to pick your poison despite the chuckles you got from your newfound friends. Oh, how you envied the others who had a proper bed. The thought made you sulk, but to be fair, the workload on the ones with a bed was heavier than yours, naturally.

Once again, your thoughts led you to him. It was the case more often than not recently. Although you had both had some more distance between you with Arthur never being around, it had only made you think about him more than you wished. You guessed it would give you more space and room to breathe, but it made you feel cramped like the surrounding air had become tighter as the days passed. 

You had also been pondering how well you had fallen asleep in his arm that night with no hint of a nightmare following the closing of your eyes. It was strange to you, and you couldn’t help but miss the shut-eye that had made you feel more at peace than ever since you were a child. There was something so comforting about his arms around you, and you felt safer than ever knowing he was there, and you had missed it and now longed for it.

Over time, it felt like the hinting of love had been creeping towards you as you tried with all the strength you had to push it away, but your efforts remained useless as the thought of him only made your heart race. It felt hopeless to you that you had to go around pining for a man you rarely saw these days, but you couldn’t help the longing from your heart that prompted you to run into his arms whenever you caught sight of him and worry immensely when you didn’t see him return to camp. 

Without Arthur’s knowledge, you had been eying the shirt you brought back from the cabin, wondering if you should fix it. If you did, he would know you stumbled into his room. You don’t know why, but you pondered if doing so would make him mad. He would probably view it as an intrusion on his privacy, but he didn’t tell you not to go in there. You had concluded that you would stitch it up for him but not give it to him. 

The stitching proved difficult as the fabric’s tear was just as massive as you noted when you first saw it, along with some smaller holes that were easy enough. Apart from your troubles with it, you were pretty proud of your handiwork, and the shirt now looked wearable again. Well, it’s wearable enough for a cowboy, at least. With a sigh, you let the fabric fall on your lap and ran your hand through your hair as you gazed into the tightly grown forest towering before you. 

“I didn’t take you for the lovesick type.” A giggling voice reached your ear, and when you turned your head to look beside you, a smiling Mary Beth filled your vision. Your brows arched at her words, surprised. “Lovesick? I’m not lovesick.” You said calmly, feigning innocence. You knew indeed what she meant, but you were not lovesick. The guilt from that night still filled your every thought, just like the embarrassment at your actions rose in you every time you heard his name. You didn’t know your actions mirrored your feelings, but to be fair, Mary Beth was always reading those romance books that probably gave her a picture of the signs of being in love.

“But maybe you are, seeing as you’re mending his shirt for him. It’ll make him happy, you know. He wore it an awful lot before.” A faint blush spread on your cheeks as you made no move to hide the shirt; the damage was already done. She was more observant than she looked; you had to give her that. 

“Mending a shirt is hardly a sign of love, Mary-Beth. If that were the case, we’d all be married by now.” Your words grew into a giggle, the thought amusing you and your romance-obsessed friend. 

“Could you imagine? I married to Bill? Or worse, Uncle?!” You erupted in a loud laughing fit after Mary-Beth whispered the words to you when she sat beside you, eyes around you now observing you. Putting her arm against your back, you both gossiped the evening away enthusiastically as you hid away from the rest of the camp, cheerfully blabbing til the darkness filled your surroundings. It was nice, the conversation you kept keeping your thoughts away from the sadness that had lodged itself in your chest, a now constant reminder. 

In moments like this, you appreciated having a close friend like Mary–Beth around, for she was incredibly clever and better at knowing when you needed distraction. You hoped she thought the same of you, knowing her life wasn’t exactly rainbows and sunshine. You also knew she valued Arthur greatly and knew him well, much more than you did. The questions churned underneath, as you had to stop yourself from spilling your situation to her as you laid all the cards on the table, begging her to make sense of your emotions. You weren’t familiar with relying your feelings on others. Instead, you took pride in your extraordinary listening abilities.

He appeared in the corner of your eyes as you glanced up amidst your hushed voices. Menacing, he looked where he sat tall on his mount, body slumped backward as he lazily swayed with the horse’s movements, leaning back in the saddle. A sigh left you as he appeared unharmed, and the slight fluttering that spread in your body made you feel like throwing up. A sharp shiver rushed through you when his blue eyes met yours, the distance doing nothing to reduce the coil that twisted your stomach at his gaze. They were fiercely soft when they met yours, dark even through their vibrant shine. He looked intimidating; there was no doubt about that, and you cowered under his stare, eyes flickering between his and the dirtied ground before you as he disappeared into camp.

It reminded you heavily of the day of the robbery and how his gaze had pierced dangerously into the poor man’s frame. Somehow, you had convinced yourself that despite the severity of his actions, he was a good man. You were unsure if it was to justify the feelings you harbored for him or the will to think of everyone as good-natured that made that the case. 

It had made you second guess what you were doing here, wondering if it did you any good to stay, but every time you pondered walking out, you found yourself unable to. You didn’t want to admit that Arthur was the reason for your staying, but somehow, the thought seemed to linger in your mind, reminding you of it every so often. 

You felt Mary-Beth’s hand circle your forearm as she waved at the other men coming back, although glancing at you as she did. Straightening your back, you looked away. This time, you kept it that way as his eyes did more damage than good to you, a warmth having spread low in your stomach at the look of him.

Clearing your throat, you raised from your spot beside Mary-Beth and gave her a tight-knit smile. “Let’s get something to eat, yeah?” Nodding, she dusted off her lap slightly before hooking arms with you, humming as you walked off. You headed deeper into camp, finding Arthur’s eyes examining you as he spoke to a beaming Mr. Pearson, joined by a pessimistic Dutch. 

Scratching his beard with his thumb, he looked deep in thought, like he wasn’t even recognizing that he was looking at you. For the first time, his eyes didn’t avoid you; instead, he looked at you shamelessly as your frame grew closer. Staring ahead, you felt your heartbeat pick up–it felt nice to have him looking at you again, although you couldn’t quite figure out what could be the reason for his stare. 

You found yourself in a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, the questions tumbling through your mind like a storm. Mary-Beth’s voice grew into background noise, her words a distant echo as you tried to steady your racing heart that only grew faster as the world became stifling. 

The atmosphere had shifted, charged with a tension that seemed to envelop everything. As you continued the short distance, you couldn’t help but steal glances in his direction, each filled with curiosity and uncertainty despite you telling yourself to pay him no mind. God, you felt like a teenager again with no self-restriction.

“Hey.” A deep rumble traveled through camp as the distinctive voice reached you, your mind going numb at the possibility of him speaking to you. Mary-Beth turned her head towards you in confusion while you raised your shoulder slightly in uncertainty, head turning towards the ground as you came to a halt. You heard the clanking of footsteps draw near as the conversation between the three men ended.

“I’ll let you speak in private. Join me later?” Nodding slightly, you kept your head down, wishing you could shrink and run out of sight of the man towering behind you as your friend left you to your demise. You cursed at her under your breath as she half-ran to grab a bite to eat, probably to watch the entertainment before her unfold. 

A short, rough cough brought you out of your thoughts, and straightening your spine, you turned around to face Arthur, motioning for him to speak as a slight smile graced your lips politely. 

“I- we brought Ada back. I’m sorry we couldn’t get her until now, but roaming around there could get us into quite the trouble.” Scratching his neck slightly, he grabbed his belt buckle like he always did when he didn’t know where to put his hands. 

You almost gaped at him when he spoke to you, used to him ignoring you, but recovered quickly by nodding slowly to show him you heard him. Eyes flickered up to yours soon before they faltered just as fast, sniffling before continuing.

“She seems alright, so you don’t gotta worry about that.” Suddenly, his words sunk in, your mind too focused on seeming indifferent to realize. Relief washed over you as you glanced towards the trees, and there she was, unhurt and now safe. Your legs began moving towards her before you could stop them, but before you got too far, you turned to the man who had brought her back to you.

“Thank you, Arthur, really. I know you have a lot on your shoulders right now, so…” You wanted to continue, but your mind grew blank as his blue eyes stared straight into yours. Nodding hastily, he told you not to worry about it and left you with Ada. 

Smiling broadly, you ran up to her to thread your fingers through her mane, soft as it was when you last saw her. 

“Welcome home, Ada.”

-

After your small interaction, the days passed, the slight contentment you felt bled into settled panic nestling in your stomach. Dread filled you as you walked towards the men saddling their horses, not giving you a second glance as your quick steps grew closer. 

“I rarely involve myself in your business, as it’s not my place. But I and many others deem this to be a set-up!” Panic laced your words even though you tried to hide it, hoping they couldn’t detect it as you tried to keep a steady voice. Abigail trailed behind you, putting her hand calmly on your back. 

She had seen the unsteadiness on your face when she told you of their recently planned actions to make up a deal with Colm O’Driscoll and end the year-long feud between them; worry also heavy on her face as she told you of her doubts about the situation. 

“Now, now, my dear girl. You have nothing to worry about. We are just going to chat with old Colm, nothing more, nothing less!” Dutch’s ardent voice was loud as he spoke confidently, patting your shoulder as he walked past you, not failing to give you a reassuring smile only he could give in a situation like this. You felt like rolling your eyes at him but decided against it; the action was not like you and most definitely disrespectful towards the man.

“I get I might not know much about his character, but from what I’ve heard, he’s not the most reliable man. I’m asking you to consider instead of hasting through it.” Chuckling slightly, the man raised himself into his saddle expertly, beckoning Micha to do the same as Arthur stayed firmly on the ground as you spoke, staring indescribably at you. You could see the thoughts that ran through his mind. Who did you think you were to talk to in Dutch like that? With shame long forgotten, you stood your ground.

“My, my. You could give a man the wrong idea by worrying like that.” Sneering down at you with a sleazy smile, Micha crouched his form down towards you as he pulled on the reins. “I’ll return to you in one piece, darling.” 

His offensive breath reached your nose as he leaned in close to you, and with an appalled face, you stepped back quickly to put some distance between you, back-hitting Arthur’s chest by accident, unaware he stood so close. His hand closed around your upper arm to pull you away from Micha. Sending him an unimpressed look, he grabbed your shoulders and turned you around as he stared you down with raised eyebrows.

“Listen, we know what we’re doin-” Before he could continue, Dutch interrupted him. 

“Just a talk, darling.” Flashing you a suave smile, he beckoned the horse forward with Micha on the trail. “Come on, Arthur. We got a deal to make!” Hands left your shoulder as you closed your eyes and took a deep breath. 

“Arthur, please listen to me. I have a bad feeling about this! What if you get hurt?” Your tries of reasoning grew into pleading as you trailed behind him, grabbing onto his leg as the horse, who kept a slow trot, rose still, huffing at the abrupt standstill. Staring up at Arthur with begging eyes, you thought you might have seen a slight hesitation deep within them.

“Hey, we’ll be alright, darlin’.” Leaning down, he grabbed your hand firmly on his thigh with a tight squeeze. “I wouldn’t dare get a scratch on the shirt you fixed for me, so I’ll have no choice but to return unharmed, do I?” With that, his warm hands left yours as the dirt swirled around him, gazing ahead with a small smile you failed to see amidst your confusion.

Shirt, you pondered for a second. Glancing behind you, you now noticed a few more had walked up a few meters away as they watched the men leave, Abigail pulling you back towards the camp with a sad gaze. Amidst them, you found a smug Mary-Beth shrugging her shoulders as you gave her an accusatory look, shrinking away quickly before you could question her.

A palpable tension stayed after their departure; it had continued into a sleepless night as anxious whispers and worried glances punctuated each passing hour cast toward the horizon. 

Ultimately, it turned out that they all had been wrong, and you had been right. Despite this, Micha and Dutch returned in one piece, but Arthur did not. Arthur was the reason you were worried about this meeting from the start. Whenever you thought about the severity of the situation, your heart picked up, and the feeling of having to do something filled you but being held back by various gang members. 

“We can’t just sit here! What if they have Arthur!?” You walked around restlessly with your hands trembling slightly in worry. 

“And they might not have him. We don’t know. If we don’t see him back before tomorrow, we’ll go out after him.” Charles’ calm voice did nothing to ease your stress. Glancing up at Dutch in the distance, you grew weary as you didn’t see a trace of worry on his features. “This happens sometimes; we have to wait it out for a while. Arthur would have said the same thing.”

The only response Charles got was a clear view of your back as you stalked off to your tent, restlessness coursing through you amidst your slight panic. How they could be so aloof about this made no sense to you. From the moment when Dutch and Micha returned to camp, it was as if everything had returned to normal, with only a few inquiries about Arthur’s whereabouts. 

Were you overreacting? They had been exposed to these situations for much longer than you had, so was your worrying unnecessary? Charles might have been right. Maybe you should give it some time before the worrying was justified, choosing to believe he was safe and sound. It would be the more logical thing to do, which didn’t surprise you since the thought came from Charles, but your head refused to work with it. 

As night and day passed, your thoughts were consumed by the man now absent, everything you did useless since you couldn’t focus. It blurred past you, a fog-like cloud covering your mind. 

Only when the moon cast a silver sheen over the camp could you hear it—a distant, solitary set of hoofbeats approaching. Your heart leaped into your throat as you swirled around with the half-packed bag. It was the unmistakable cadence of Arthur’s horse you had grown to remember. 

With a sense of urgency, you rushed to the camp’s perimeter, your eyes fixed on the approaching silhouette. Arthur’s unmistakable figure emerged from the shadows, hunched over in pain, one arm clenched tightly to his side. He looked battered and bruised, the soft glow from camp revealing the weariness on his battered face.

As he drew nearer, your heart constricted in your chest, the relief of seeing him again, nothing against the fear now flooding your senses. The world seemed to slow to a crawl as you watched him approach, his usually steely resolve replaced by a weary vulnerability. The sight of him wounded and weakened, stirred emotions within you that you struggled to put into words. All you could do was stand in shock, frozen in time, as he emerged.

Arthur’s horse carried him closer, but his strength gave out, and he tumbled from the saddle to the ground with a painful thud. You felt a shiver of anguish as the impact sent you rushing forward, and others from the camp alerted by the commotion joined you. In the dim moonlight, you could see the strained lines of Arthur’s face, the sweat that clung to his brow, and the pallor of his skin being drained of its usual color. His clothing was stained with dirt and dried blood, and his breaths came in ragged, pained gasps.

Amidst the concerned voices and hurried footsteps surrounding him, Arthur summoned the strength to speak. His words were laden with exhaustion and a grim determination as he recounted the treacherous encounter with Colm O’Driscoll. His suspicions about betrayal were tragically confirmed that he had relied on Dutch before despite his reassurance to you. 

“Ah, I told you they would betray us, Dutch!” His voice was strained as he spoke, his eyes shut tight. Your hands trembled as you knelt beside him, your fingers itching to reach and touch him, to reassure yourself that he was here and not a figment of your imagination. The fear that had been gnawing at you during his absence, the dread that he might never return, had taken a toll on your nerves, and now that he was back, it threatened to spill over.

“We were comin’ for you, Arthur,” Dutch shouted as he made his way over, his voice tinged with relief. “But you made it back. That’s what matters.” As he spoke, your gaze remained locked onto Arthur’s face, your heart aching as you ignored his words. The sight of him, usually the epitome of strength and resilience, brought low by his injuries, shook you to your core. 

The campfire’s flickering light cast eerie shadows on his battered form, accentuating the wounds and weariness on his face as his eyes stayed on you. Pain and exhaustion dimmed his usually vibrant eyes. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead as his face scrunched up in pain, and your heart ached at the sight of him in such agony.

You moved closer to Arthur, inspecting his injuries as discreetly as possible. His injuries were rough, and the gun wound in his shoulder was cauterized. Instantly, you grew worried when you realized he had sealed the wound on his own, but you shook the thoughts away for now. 

Leaning closer to Arthur, your fingers moved carefully; you swept away the sweat-dampened strands of hair that clung to his forehead, your touch a soothing caress against his heated skin. The sensation of his sweat-slicked hair sliding through your fingertips sent a shiver down your spine, but you pressed on, driven by an irresistible need to provide him with some relief.

“You’ll be all right, Arthur. Just hang in there.” You whispered, your voice filled with warmth and worry, trying to discern his pain despite knowing words wouldn’t do the job. Your fingertips traced a path down to his cheek, where the roughness of his stubble met your touch. 

Miss Grimshaw’s voice cut through the tense atmosphere of the camp like a whip crack, her stern tone leaving no room for argument. “Enough of this dawdling!” she barked, her eyes blazing with authority as she glared at the men gathered around Arthur. “Get him to his cot, now!” The urgency in her command left no room for hesitation, and the men scrambled into action, realizing the gravity of the situation. They carefully lifted Arthur, who winced in pain and carried him to his cot.

“Miss, you know what to do?” Her stern voice grew softer as she looked at you, already gathering materials you kept by your tent in a calm frenzy. You stilled as you looked at her, absentmindedly nodding as you pondered how to keep the man alive.

As you set to work, the camp grew into a tense silence; you preparing to tend to Arthur’s wounds when everyone had finally left you alone. Despite this, you could almost feel the tent vibrate with the heaviness of the other’s curious and worried eyes, closed flaps not helping.

Cauterized. That’s what Arthur had done. You closed your eyes momentarily at the horrifying thought. “What a fool you are, Arthur Morgan.” As the anger-rid panic spread through you, the loud buzzing in your ears grew louder. The flickering glow of the campfire cast shifting shadows across his worn face, highlighting the pain etched there. With anger and concern fueling your determination, you gathered the supplies, each movement deliberate.

As you sat on the chair beside the bed, the scent of smoke and charred flesh lingered in the air, a haunting reminder of what he had done to survive. Hastily, you unbuttoned the top of his union suit–the once white material a dark red, wet with blood. The wound was now exposed, the charred edges and angry redness a testament to the dangerousness of his actions. Your heart ached at the sight, emotions swirling within you as your fingers traced the contours of the wound with gentle reverence, feeling the heat that radiated from his skin. 

“Why in the world does it look like that?” Miss Grimshaw had crept up hurriedly behind you through the closed flaps of the tent but stopped when she was presented with the sight before her. Her gaze was set straight on where the bullet had dislodged from his right shoulder. The flesh was both burned and black. A gruesome sight, indeed. 

She handed you a clean cloth, her hand hovering over her mouth as you dipped it in the cold water Pearson had handed you. Gently, you cleaned the wound, the fabric stained with a mixture of dirt, ash, and dried blood. You made sure the touch of the cloth against his skin was tender as you glanced up at his still contorting face, pain heightening as time passed now that the adrenaline had lessened. 

“Cauterization.” You told the woman, disbelief still brimming through your mind. “It’s not a very common practice, and many aren’t aware of it. A good thing, though, I would say. It’s only used when there is no other way to survive.” The thought made you hesitate as you wondered what could have happened to Arthur for him to think that was the only way. 

You got a confused look as you peered up at Miss. Grimshaw. Sighing lightly, you continued. “To avoid bleeding to death, you remove the bullet lodged in your skin from your wound and then blow up the skin with gunpowder to seal it. While it theoretically works, gunpowder is unpredictable, meaning you could get into more damage than you first were. When you blow up the skin like that, the skin tissue dies–and the immune system doesn’t work on that area since the skin is dead, essentially.” You glanced at him again as you shook your head, finding his eyes already on yours. 

“With no immune system, the infections you can get are severe. There’s no way for your body to help protect that skin. In the end, it leads to death, most of the time.”

With a steadying breath, you reached for a bottle of alcohol salvaged from the camp’s supplies. Soaking the cloth in the liquid, the potent scent fills the surrounding air. “If the fever doesn’t take him, the infections will, Susan. How in the world did he think this was a good idea?” Though steady at hand, your voice shook as you found it increasingly difficult to speak. 

You placed one hand on his forehead that felt worryingly warm under your palm as you glanced around to see if you had brought a wet cloth. Catching your drift, Grimshaw handed you one she got from the bedside table. Giving her an appreciative smile, you place it on his forehead. 

“I can hear you, you know.” Gritting the words through his teeth, he spoke in a slur amidst the sharp pain, keeping his gaze locked on you. As you stared at each other, a silent exchange passed before you gently pressed the alcohol-dosed cloth against the wound. His inhale was sharp, a flinch betraying his efforts to remain composed, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy for the suffering he endured.

Looking at you, Grimshaw shook her head slightly as appreciation shone in her sharp eyes. “Well, good thing we have you here, miss. God knows how he would have fared if that weren’t the case.”

 For the first time since you met her, Miss Grimshaw appeared wildly unsure of herself, uneasiness coating her every move. If not for the severity of the situation, you would have found humor in her now ghostly pale face contradicting her ever-so-harsh interior. She probably felt so, too, for she put her hand on your shoulder encouragingly and left you to tend to Arthur, promising to call for her if you needed anything.

Her words were encouraging, yet the fear stayed persistent. What if you couldn’t help Arthur? Trying to stray from the thoughts consuming you, you focused on keeping a delicate balance of care and caution in your hands. The alcohol someone handed you before served as an antiseptic. Although not as valuable as a legitimate antiseptic, you had to make it work to sterilize the wound and ward off the threat of infection. 

Arthur’s eyes remained fixed on yours throughout—a gaze that seemed intense and challenging to describe yet unwavering in its focus as they grew tired. In another instance, it might have rendered you nervous about being so heavily observed, but the adrenaline that still coursed through you made your focus solely on his wound. When everything appeared clean, you grabbed the bandage you brought to wrap it around his shoulder cautiously.

After some time, you carefully withdrew as nothing more could be done, but your fingers lingered against his skin for a moment longer than necessary. Despite his fatal injuries, feeling his skin under your hands had been an immense comfort–a constant reminder that he was still with you for the time being. 

The moonlight glows gently over you, soft shadows dancing across his features as you gaze over his form. He appeared to be knocked out now, eyes closed and breathing even. Indeed, this was a common enough occurrence in this gang as you thought back to all the other misfortunes they had to be saved from, but the thought of Arthur being the one at the receiving end of it made your chest cramp slightly tighter. Sure, he had been in scrapes before, but never this bad.

Shaking your head, you tried to get rid of the thoughts bothering you and instead worried about how you were about to keep his fever down. He was still burning up, face red and layered with sweat. As you glanced at Arthur again, pity settled low in your stomach. His expression was laden with discomfort and pain, even though sleep had rendered him motionless on the bed. 

Bringing your hands away from his smoldering skin, you quietly threaded over the ground to the bedside table to grab the supplies, now soaked in blood and ash. Preparing to leave, you took what remained of the alcohol so you could sterilize the small portion of materials that were still usable. 

That’s when you heard a barely audible, hoarse grunt piercing through the night’s stillness. Surprised, you looked behind you, and staring at you were a pair of blue eyes, half-shut with exhaust coating them amidst a desperation you had never witnessed before. Your breath hitched as the moment suffocated your lungs, the air around you growing thicker. 

“Don’t go.” Arthur’s words were a whisper, laced with a quiet vulnerability that made your heartbeat pick up its pace. As you looked down at your blood-soaked hands to avoid his gaze, a calm moment passed where you assessed where the following string of actions would lead you, but ultimately, you sat back in the chair beside him.

Gently, you brought your still trembling fingers through his hair, combing it away from the cloth covering his forehead. His half-closed eyes watched you, and the warmth lodged in them almost made your breath stop. 

Humming slightly, you remained beside him until your soothing caress lulled him closer to sleep. His breathing gradually slowed, the pain-filled haze lulling him into a fitful slumber. Features relaxed, his body finally succumbing to the desperately needed rest.

–

The camp grew shrouded in quietness. Arthur was still lying in his fever-induced haze, features now softened by the gentle pull of slumber. By his side, you sat with a tired mind, a flickering lantern casting a warm light that danced across your features. You had been awake for a few hours, watching over him in hopes his fever would stay down. Although your eyes showed intense fatigue, you combated sleep with determination and worry. How could you possibly leave him now? 

Frankly, you were just as terrified now as when he stumbled into camp. As told before, if a severe infection took hold of his body, you had no way to help or treat him like you would if you had the suitable materials and not in the middle of nowhere. It was severe, not the usual gashes and bruises you were used to tending to with your time with the gang. 

As you gently switched the damp cloth on his forehead for a new one, its cool touch contrasted his heated skin greatly. Arthur’s eyelids fluttered open slightly, revealing eyes clouded with fever and something else–perhaps even warmer amidst the haze. Chastising yourself for not being careful enough, you stroked his cheek softly with the back of your fingers, cooing at him calmly.

“Go back to sleep.” Your voice was calm, praying that he would fall back asleep. He didn’t answer you, only looking at you in that indescribable way. A fleeting vulnerability had seemed to wash over him in the quiet space between wakefulness and dreams as his fingers stirred.

Before you could fully grasp his intentions, his trembling hand found the one you had been resting on his cheek, his touch warm. A rough thumb brushed against your inner palm in a tender caress as he brought the soft skin of your hand to graze it over his lips. Your heart raced a tumultuous rhythm as his action surprised you tremendously.

Despite your attempts to stay strong, the weariness that washed over you and the toll of the day’s events fell from your shoulders when his eyes stared so tenderly into yours. The fear that had knotted your chest when you first saw him writhing in pain, the nagging anxiety that had gnawed at your insides during those uncertain hours of tending to his wounds, and the overwhelming relief that he was now here, still with you—all surged to the surface at once. 

Silent tears welled in your eyes, their shimmering trails tracing the contours of your red cheeks. Your breath quivered, and your shoulders shook with the sheer intensity of the emotions building inside you. It was as though a dam had burst, releasing the pent-up feelings that had threatened to overwhelm you throughout the night. In the soft, dark tent, you surrendered to this moment of vulnerability, letting your tears flow freely.

​​Arthur’s lips, usually quick with wit or stern in resolve, now held a slight parting as if he wanted to speak but found himself at a loss for words. Witnessing him in such a state was rare, his gaze carrying a depth of emotion without explanation. Though trembling with the lingering pain of his injuries, his fingers maintained an unwavering hold on your hand as he pulled on it, beckoning you closer to him. 

“No.” You mumbled through your tears, eyes clouded with a panic-induced frenzy when you understood what he wanted from you. “I need to watch over your fever.” Sobs mingled with your words, shaking your voice as tears glided down your skin, hand leaving in hesitation as you tried to create distance between you. A sigh escapes Arthur as he stretches his arm towards you and grabs your hand yet again, pulling you closer to him. 

Although the pull was weak, it didn’t require much strength to succumb you to his will. Your determination disappeared instantaneously as your mind longed to be comforted despite the man before you in more need of it, leaving the chair to be embraced by his scorching body, the smell of sweat and blood filling your nostrils when you felt him underneath you. You didn’t care, though, the feeling of his bare skin against your cheek letting you know he was alive as you rested in the crook of his neck.

In the peaceful silence, you could hear the labored rhythm of his breaths, still showing signs of pain and the toll his injuries had taken on him. His heartbeat remained steady, though, a reassuring cadence that echoed in your ears like a comforting lullaby as you rested your hand on it. You grew aware of the rise and fall of his chest, the gentle thud of his pulse against your ear. Your heartbeat slowed as his cradle unconsciously calmed you, the tears not as persistent as they once were. 

His uninjured hand found sanction on your waist as he gently stroked it with his thumb, the action comforting. If that meant he was alright or not, you could not tell, but likewise, you basked in the moment of having him close to you.

You looked up at him and stroked his temple soothingly as you wiped away the sweat that ran down his face. Arthur was already observing you when you met his gaze, the look in his eyes making you warmer than you already were, as the stifling air in the closed tent made no way for the chilly breeze to come through.

“You scared me, Arthur.” As the moment grew more intense, your eyes fell to the scruff on his neck as you spoke, fearing to look at him after your revelation. You felt the coarseness of his hand land on your cheeks in a gentle motion, the pads of his fingers gliding across your skin thoughtfully.

“You ain’t got to be scared anymore,” His raspy voice spoke out as his touch slowly caressed your lips, eyes zoned in on the soft curves. “I’m right here.” 

Then, as if guided by an impulse deep within him, he raised on his unhurt arm and leaned forward as the back of your head found sanction in the crevice in his arm, his lips finding yours in a kiss as delicate as it was poignant. 

The world seemed to recede in that instant, time slowing to a standstill as the feeling of his lips against yours sent a jolt of emotions coursing through your veins. The exchange was not fleeting; it was a lingering dance of lips and breath, a dance that ignited embers that had been smoldering between you for longer than you dared to admit. 

When he pulled back, his eyes locked on yours with a blend of sleepiness and an ember of awareness that pierced through the fog of his haze. You grabbed his shoulders softly, beckoning him to lie down again and rest on his already shaking body, quivering from the power of trying to stay upright. His fingers retreated to the bed, his gaze unwavering, as if he was etching you into his memory. A hand came to rest in your hair when he softly brought you to his lips again, your breath hitching as you fell into his arms again, your legs on either side of him when he pulled you closer.

His lips moved with more fervor this time, the arm holding you tighter against him as a deep hum left his throat at the feeling of your hands on his neck. His eyes were half-open as he kissed you, gazing softly into yours as the candle beside you flickered its light deep into his eyes. Together, your lips massaged one another, now desperate, as your hands gripped the strands of his hair at the nape of his neck. 

The feeling of him gripping your hips against his middle made you squirm, the bed creaking underneath you as you moved your legs further up his sides to reach him better. You didn’t give yourself a chance to ponder what you were doing, feeling delirious and too exhausted to question your actions.

“Arthur.” His name came out in a breathless whine; though desperate, it was quiet. There was no reaction as his lips barely left yours to breathe, then once again warming your insides as you felt his tongues slip into your warm cavern, a nonsensical rumble deep in his chest going through him.

“Arthur,” Once again, you whispered; this time, despite your will to keep falling into him, you removed your hands as you tried pulling away. “You need to rest.” He placed his hand on your back and pushed you back towards him, stroking down to your waist as his palm caressed your curves.

“I’m serious!” Yet again, another whine left you, words contradicting your body as your hips moved hesitantly above his. Biting the bottom of your lip at the pleasant feeling creeping up your stomach, you returned to him with an urgency that rendered both of you merciless as you found comfort in each other’s arms. 

“I thought I’d never see you again.” It took a while to process the words he spoke as the moment you shared filled your every sense, but when you did, you froze in his arms. Blinking your eyes slowly, you soaked up his words, and when you glanced up at him, his eyes were shut tight in pain. Your once beating heart slowed down as his confession squeezed it tightly, your breath now heavy as it grew loud through the quiet of the night.

“When, when I…” His forehead creased in frustration as he tried to get the words out. “When I got shot, all I could see was you.” The last few words he groaned out in strained breaths, teeth gritting as his hand flew to his shoulder. “And I, I could see you in front of me like you were right there. You felt so real as you fell into my arms, and I thought that was it.” A long pause endured before he let out a sigh and spoke. “I thought I’d gone to heaven, ya know.”

With now strained, open eyes, he looked into yours, and for the first time, you felt like you could see straight through the thorny walls of his soul as he bared himself to you. He had always been a man of few words, the last couple of days a firm reminder of that, but the way he spoke now filled you with a shock that made your blood run cold despite the scorching heat that surrounded you. 

A long moment passed, and your breathing was barely audible as it mingled with Arthur’s. Despite being the words you have wanted to hear for a long time, they weren’t what you expected. The warm feeling in your stomach turned into a slight prickling as it rose in your chest, and you had to lean back as it spread through you.

“Now, I know.” A loud breath left him, the world growing blurry before your eyes as he continued, stress evident in his words as you put some distance between you. “It’s selfish of me to tell you this, to burden you with having a man like me love you. But I had to feel you one last time, in case I,” A slight hesitation filled his voice as he kept his eyes shut, fearing the look on your face as his hand squeezed your thigh. “Won’t make it tonight.”

The heavy stones resting on his shoulders for a long time fell, and relief shot through him as he finally found himself telling you what he never imagined he would. Could is a more fitting word; if not for the fever-induced haze he found himself in and the near-death experience he had just witnessed, he wouldn’t have spoken a word. He would leave you none the wiser than you were before, still having to live with loving a man who didn’t love you while he would dream of you forever, within a distance but still so far away—a light in his forever darkness.

Now, he was telling the truth. Aware of the fatality of his wound, he was sure dying was a possibility in the coming hours. After all the bad things he had done in life, the man down below had chased him for a long time, and Arthur always escaped him with pure luck. 

To have you one more time as he did in the cabin was his dying wish, to once in his life feel the embrace of someone he loved in the bleak world he had lived in. He felt pathetic as he begged you to stay with him, rest his hands on you, and listen to the pitiful words that made him feel more like a beggar than a man. 

He thought it was for the best when you didn’t speak up. He didn’t want to hear the words that he always imagined you would tell him were he to voice his feelings to you. Instead, he wished to live in blissful ignorance, to hear your breath in his ear as your hands touched him in pity for his pining and longing with eyes filled with anything but love. That’s where his heart had brought him now, craving your touch; whether it was filled with hatred or sadness, he would take it all as he lived his last moments. He would let you do anything to him, only if you stayed close to him.

When he had returned to you at the table in the cabin, the look in your eyes left his heart cold, filled with sadness as you gazed at him. A look that reeked of regret, wishing that you had never let him put his hands on you. He didn’t need you to tell him, for he already knew. To leave you in silence had been the best way for him to protect the small part of his dignity he had left. 

He had wanted so badly for you to keep laughing then, beckoning him to return to your embrace as the monumental fright turned into a laughable memory and a loving one as you held each other warm for the remainder of the night. The thought had brought chills up his spine, and as he longed to return to you, he knew it wasn’t possible. If he put another hand on you, your words would burn his heart into ash on the wooden floor. He was sure of it.

As Arthur’s thoughts raced, yours stood still. What could you say that would make sense? You thought it had to be a dream, for you were sure you would never hear those types of words coming from Arthur. You brought your hands up to his cheeks with your palms against his warm, wet skin as you focused your gaze on his, finding his eyes now looking at you. 

“What?” That’s all you could manage to let out, voice small and confused at his sudden confession. You felt a hand engulf your own, holding it against him as his gaze faltered when you leaned back toward him. You brought your forehead against his cloth-covered one and closed your eyes, soaking up his presence.

Loved you? He loved you? The thought rose fast, and your blood that had run cold earlier was replaced with a warmth that shook you through and through. Had you been so wrong to mistake his love for you with hatred and regret? Looking at him now, you could see that every word he spoke was accurate as he opened up to you and how glad you were that he did; for now, you wished to hear those words leave him forever. Amidst your tear-filled eyes, a toothy smile grazed your lips as you pressed them against his unexpected ones. 

They were warm and inviting, fitting perfectly against yours, as if they had always belonged there, and as your mouths melded together, a profound sense of happiness surged within you. His hand, which had been so gentle with you, cradled your face, thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender caress that sent shivers down your spine. Leaning into the crook of his neck, you shut your eyes as a surge of tears broke through your eyelids from the emotions that wrecked through you.

“Hey now, I thought I told you not to cry.” Arthur shushed you as a choked sound left you, frowning as you let tears fall. You found it unbelievable to imagine that this was why he withdrew from you, and at this moment, you felt the stupidest you had ever felt. 

Why had his thoughts led him so astray? Thinking that you would pity and loath him for the feelings he harbored for you? A damn outstanding actor, he was, for he had you a complete fool. You were sure he regretted everything.

“I thought you hated me.” As you murmured the words meekly against his skin, a scoff shook your body when Arthur glanced at you in disbelief. 

“Now, how in the hell did you get an idea like that?” Even though his words grew harsh, his tone remained soft. He was surprised that that’s how you had perceived him lately. He held no contempt for you in his whole body and wasn’t sure he could, even if he had all the right to. 

“I just, you.” Stammering, you found it hard to explain yourself, now realizing how easily this could have been if you weren’t so stubborn. “I thought you regretted being with me. You know, that night. And I, I thought I’d taken advantage of you and that you didn’t want to see me anymore.”

You were greeted with silence as Arthur let your words sink in, the quietness deafening. You waited for an answer with your head still cowering under his neck. His hand left its place on your waist and covered your cheek under its rough palm. Lifting your head, he forced you to look at him, an incomprehension visible in his expression.

“I’d be a fool if I even considered, even for a second, to regret being with you. More of a fool than I already am.” He saw that his sentence only confused you; a painstakingly labored breath left him before he continued. “Jesus, woman. You should be the one to regret being with me. A man like me should never put his hands on a woman like you, you know.”

“No, Arthur.” You mumbled as you stared at his chest in defiance. So this was why he had been acting like this? Was all that ignoring and indifference just a facade because he thought he didn’t deserve you? You almost wanted to laugh at the thought, but the worry you felt for him for his poor view of himself grew.

“Listen, I can’t be that for you, even if you wanted me to.” Shaking your head, you began to silence him.

“No-.”

“No, you listen to me. Today was a perfect example of who I am and what I do.” He shook your head to get you to look at him as he craned his neck to look deeper into your eyes. “You shouldn’t even be here, for your own sake. You could be safe, married, and live away from all this shit. Every time I see you, I see that you’re too good for us; you’re too kind, too warm.” He stroked your wet cheek with his rough palm as he murmured. “It ain’t something an outlaw like me deserves, alright?”

How do you even respond to that? You had no choice but to gaze into his eyes, the warmth deep within the blue orbs rendering you silent. So you didn’t answer him, lowering your lips closer to his. Your breaths mingled, the enticing distance speaking volumes at the want for each other still lingering in the air. 

Arthur’s breathing grew unstable, and the already heavy strain his body was going through grew bolder as your enticing lips appeared so close to his, both mouths opening slightly as hazy eyes adorned your blushed faces. Everything that had just been said between the two of you disappeared from his mind; the only thing making sense to him now was your plump lips barely touching his.

You heard him rumble your name soundlessly, but it turned into nonsense in your ears as they buzzed, your heart beating so heavily in your chest you were sure you could feel it rattle your whole body when his lips finally touched your own. The first few seconds felt like a song, his fingers on you, picking at the strings of your heart as your breaths turned into a beautiful melody. Your caress was delicate as it ran over his shoulders, avoiding his bandages as they traced over the soft skin of his arms. 

“You’re not dying tonight. You’re staying here with me whether you like it or not.” You let your lips connect again before he could speak, the desire in the kiss growing heavier, electricity zapping in the surrounding air. Now that you had him, you felt your heart soar at the revelation. Arthur loved you. Oh, how stupid you had been to think he despised you and regretted being with you.

You turn your head to the side to catch your breath, but as you do, Arthur takes the chance to place small, loving kisses against the corner of your mouth. Now that he had you on top of him, he only grew desperate for more, even though he knew the meaning behind your willingness was pity seeping through you from his words. 

As you gasped for breath, his wet trail descended from your chin to your neck, sloppily massaging his tongue against your soft skin. Despite your attempts, his touch made it harder for you to regain your composure as a pitiful, quiet whine left you when you felt his teeth gently scrape on the already blushing skin. 

His hand that never left the swell of your hips felt increasingly more lewd now than before, the broadness of his palms kneading the doughy swell of your curves as he spread your cheeks with fingers that grew closer to the warmth of your lower region. Your hands found sanction in his hair yet again, bringing your lips to his as your hips moved against the motion of his hands restlessly. 

“You don’t need to do this.” Arthur’s voice was dangerously low when he spoke through your lips pressed firmly against his, and although laced with want, the uncertainty was noticeable. A suppressed moan left you as his finger accidentally ran over the delicate part of your lower region through your skirt, your face contorting at both the muted pleasure and confusing words he spewed.

“Hmm?” Once more, you zoned out for a minute, completely forgetting his injured state that had only been brought back to camp a few hours ago, and ran your hands down his neck and over the broadness of his shoulders, muscles tensing at your sensual caress. 

“I know you pity me, but-” Barely listening to him, your eyes remain closed as you memorize the curves of his upper body. “-but you ain’t got to do this. I know what I said about having you one last time, but that was just wishful thinking, sweetheart.” Feeling the air thicken as you breathe, you gaze at him with clouded eyes, brows furrowing with bewilderment. “You ain’t got to do this just because you feel bad for me, alright?” 

Raising, you sit down on his middle as you inhale deeply. “What are you talking about, Arthur?” A moment passed when his eyes closed, bringing his uninjured hands to his face to remove the cloth still covering his forehead as he let out a curse word under his breath. “You think I’m doing this in pity? No.” 

Leaning forward slightly as you shook your head, you grabbed his cheeks with both hands to make him look at you. “Ever since you left me in that cold cabin, I thought you despised me, Arthur. I felt so ashamed and didn’t know what to do, but I couldn’t hate you because I love you too much.” Silence followed your words as he stared at you like they had gone in the other ear and disappeared through the other. “Trust me, this is not pity, Arthur.” Softly, you kissed his forehead, lingering there for a while as you didn’t, even for a second, ponder over what you just said. 

You felt two arms circle around your waist tightly as a gasp left your unsuspecting body when you fell on your back towards the sheets, the large body of Arthur encasing you as your lips connected in a hurried kiss. Shocked at the sudden change of events, you grab onto his arms to find stability, the fabric of his bandages reminding you of his state.

With your eyes shooting open, you try to push at the man above you so he would lie down again, the thought of him over-exerting himself a horror in the back of your mind as the severity of his wounds was apparent. This wasn’t good; you shouldn’t have let him move a single muscle when he rose from sleep; instead, prompt him to go back to sleep so he could rest his defeated body. Your emotions had gained the upper hand, and with every stroke from his broad hands, they threatened to take over again, surrendering you to his want.

You were tapping his chest in despair, but he didn’t let a single word leave your mouth as he almost swallowed you whole, a deep rumble going through his chest as he thought your moans of protest were from pleasure. Shivers wrecked through you when you felt his hands drag their way up your sides, thumbs resting just under your bosom as they stroked tenderly, ghosting over your sensitive nipples, the touch electrifying despite the layer of clothing separating you. 

“Arthur! What do you think you’re doing!?” Managing to get ahold of yourself amidst his adamant touch, you find a moment to escape the onset of his lips left on you. Your hushed words didn’t seem to phase him as a lazy grin grew on his lips, staring at you with lidded eyes; no sadness in his gaze, but a deep longing that spread like a fog over his blue orbs. Ignoring you, his mouth enveloped you as a warmth radiated through your whole body, melting like butter in his embrace.

“Say it again.” Caught up in your lips, he begged you to say the three words that fell so beautifully out of your mouth–a sense of euphoria filling his body as he basked in the moment that just passed.

“What? Come on, Arthur, you’re hur-” A had found its way into your hair, tugging slightly as the other held you from squirming against the mattress. “Please, sweetheart. Tell me you love me again.” Your breath hitched when you heard what he called you, something so fiercely pinching your heart at him, yearning for you. You never thought you would have Arthur Morgan, known for his bullheadedness and unyielding ways, begging for you. Yet here you were. 

“Say it.” His words were heavy with a desperation so fierce it backtracked you for a moment, his resilience rendering you motionless for some time. His otherwise calculating eyes grew darker with a deep want, your toes curling tightly as the hold he kept on your hair grew tighter, although not firm enough to hurt you. 

Your body felt afire at his sudden desperation, not understanding how he had the energy to hold you this intensely when his whole body was trembling. The worry you held for him in this moment paled as he rendered you completely willful in his arms, the constant nagging about his state that always seemed to stay in the corner of your mind being washed away by his loving caress.

“I love you.” Succumbing to him like you always seemed to do, the three words fell from your lips earnestly, face contorted as your mouth fell ajar. Your heart beat wildly against your chest like you had just run a marathon and only increased when a loud groan left the man perched on top of you, burying his head in your neck, face now concealed by your hair that was displayed wildly on the pillow. 

“God.” A strangled sound left him as he sucked in a sharp breath, hands coming down to lift your legs to rest by your side so he could fit his hips against your delicious warmth, skirt falling around you as he pushed your plump thighs apart. “Again.” Arthur’s voice grew firmer, not begging now but demanding it of you. Lost in pleasure, you didn’t hesitate to answer him, though this time softer as you observed the frustration filling his expression. 

“I love you, Arthur.” His stomach churned at the warmth that swirled in your eyes when you spoke, feeling like the only thing keeping his miserable being alive was your words as they pierced through his heart. It wasn’t enough, though; every time you told him you loved him, a more profound urge to hear you say it grew, urging him to leave you screaming the words. It would only be enough when he had captured your entire body and soul in the prison of his hands, the only name left in your mind his. Just like it always should be.

Caught up in his intoxicating lips, it felt like there was nothing but the two of you in the entire world, everything having been pushed away by the intensity of the desire now burning within you. Eager to be even closer to you, he sought any friction to alleviate the sharp pleasure he felt spreading in his lower stomach. The hips nestled between yours sunk further so they fit snugly against yours, now unable to escape the blissful sensation that left your mouth open in a silent moan.

“Again.” Almost all his weight was against you now, your body pressed firmly on the mattress as he almost seemed to melt into your grasp when your hands gripped his shoulder blades in wavering suspense.

“Oh, Arthur. I love you so much.” You whimper out, finding it more challenging to keep quiet as he now ruts his hips against yours like in a trance, heavy puffs of breath leaving him as he struggles against the force of his actions.

His head fell limp on your shoulder as his arms circled your waist tight, sweat dampening the cloth of your blouse immensely, seemingly having trouble breathing as he panted loudly. 

God, it felt so good, but seeing his arms shake in exhaustion showed you it was certainly taking a toll on his body. It took much of your self-control to try to get the rugged man off you, but the mere thought of him falling dead on top of you didn’t appeal to you even though every fiber of your being longed for him to continue despite his state.

“Arthur.” You got no response even though you ran your fingers through his hair to coax him away from you, whining when he rubbed against that one spot that made you jerk slightly. “Arthur, listen to me. We shouldn’t be doing this right now.”

 You weren’t even sure he had heard you as the groans leaving him made your voice a distant reminder, but it proved to have gotten to him as the pressure of his body lifted from yours. Seeing he was out of your face, you felt your mind clear when you took a deep breath, though the pleasure he warmed your body with still left you in shambles, your voice shaking every time you spoke.

Grunting, he rolled over beside you on his back, eyes closed as he tried to regain his composure. As you looked him over, his whole body was covered in a deep blush, muscles flexing in exhaust. 

“Arthur.” You sighed as you saw his appearance, still high on his touch, that left your whole body sensitive. “Why won’t you listen to me?” As he opened his half-lidded eyes, the determination you had failed to see before shone brightly in them as he raised his shaking arm toward you. 

“Ah, come here, sweetheart.” He cooed at you, his voice irresistible even though it came out in a slur, speaking like he didn’t understand why you were so resilient. “Let me take care of you.” 

Your eyes shot open as he spoke, growing speechless as the obscenity of his words backtracked you. A blush covered your face, and you grabbed your hands on your chest as you shied away from his poignant stare; suddenly, the embarrassing motion of clenching around nothing made you whimper out a no. Although your words contradicted your actions, Arthur knew, and an acknowledging grin spread lazily on his lips. 

“I’m alright, darlin’, promise. I’ve got in worse scrapes before; this is nothing. Now come here.” He said, patting his thighs as he coaxed you closer. That was a lie. Never in his life had he been so close to death as he was today, and never had he been gripped by a fever that seemed to shake up his whole body as bad as it was now. The world around him was blurry as the slightest motion made him dizzy, every fiber begging him to rest, as he could feel his psyche and body hanging on a thread. 

So, he understood where your hesitation came from, but he’d rise from the dead again and take you if he passed away without having you. Especially now that he knew you loved him. So it didn’t matter to him if he was half alive as he pounded you; he would see it through and ruin you for every man you came across.

“You’re lying to me.” You exclaimed aghast, remaining seated on your knees beside him as you gave him a concerned look. It was easy to see, for he looked more dead than alive, and while every fiber of your being begged you to force him to rest, you knew you had no chance against him. You have never had the strength to stay away from him.

When he realized you weren’t giving up, he pushed himself up on his elbows, eyes set heavily on you like you were his prey. It made you feel small in his poignant gaze, breath hitching slightly as you felt like backing away, only to be dragged closer to him. He winced as his shoulder sent a searing pain through his body at the pressure, so you had no choice but to crawl towards him in panic and push him back on the bed as he resigned, trying to put his bandage that had slipped back in place. 

Ignoring your worrying tendencies, Arthur grabbed your more petite frame in contentment when finally having you closer again, hoisting you up on his lap as his arms pushed you to lie on him, hands resting on his chest.

Choosing to resign when you realized you couldn’t get your way, you placed a few nimble kisses on his neck under his ear where a gash had been reopened, now a deep red running down his side. He pushed you flush against him, knees raising suddenly to pull you further up his body so he could gather your skirt above your waist. Arthur’s rough hands ran over the softness of your behind before wandering up to grab your underpants. Gasping at the sudden tug, you felt the material slink down your legs, the sudden exposure covering your face in a deep blush as you kicked the material off your ankles. 

“Rest your arm, Arthur.” You reminded him quietly, feeling both his arms at work as they ran over the flesh of your inner thigh tenderly. If you were going to do this, you had to ensure at least he wouldn’t hurt himself more than he already was. 

Pleased when you saw him put his arm to his side, you raised on your knees so you could start unbuttoning your blouse. It was too warm here as the night air could not enter the tent, and you hadn’t realized how scorching it left your body until now. The material clung to your wet skin as you removed the buttons, sighing in relief as you grew more exposed.

That’s when you felt him rise, helping you remove the blouse over your head as you stared at him with a bemused expression because he didn’t listen. He didn’t pay you any mind, though, burying his face in your chest as his hands ghosted over your inner thighs. Trying to stay quiet, a hushed whisper of his name left you when you felt his cheek rub against your nipple when he placed a few kisses between your breasts. Your body was running in anticipation, already on high alert, as you had gone too long without feeling his hands on you, remembering how he had touched you before.

You gasped as his tongue circled your nipple, the wet touch gliding effortlessly along your sensitive skin. Immediately, your face contorted into pleasure as your hands tangled themselves in his hair while you gripped tight on the strands, back arching as his fingers ghosted over the wet lips underneath your skirt.

God, it felt like he was eating you alive as he let his mouth feast on the soft skin, hearing your attempts at quieting your small noises with your plush thighs pushing against his sides. One of his arms travels to your hip, trapping you in the enclosure of his hand as he grinds you down further onto the bulge, erection straining painfully against his pants. 

An audible whine leaves you amidst your panting as you bring one hand to your mouth, chastising yourself for being unable to be quiet. It was impossible, though, when you could feel his clothed bulge under your exposed cunt that grew moist–slick now, rubbing against the fabric. 

He helped you drag yourself back and forth as his hand fell to the side in resignation to the pain, his movement slow as he savored the feeling of having you entirely at his mercy. You felt him mumble something against your skin as he rolled the sensitive bud on his tongue, huffing as he felt your hands grip tighter on his roots. The sudden drag of his finger against your slit made a whine leave you, pulling his head closer against you as the pleasure now running through you rendered you unable to control your body. 

“Good?” He mumbled as he massaged your clit with his fingers, although not adding enough pressure as you tried to move your hips against his hand. A quick nod left you as he planted his mouth at the juncture of your neck, wheezing as he felt your body go limp in his arms. He brought his thumb lower to feel how wet you were, the rough pads of his fingers so good against your heat as they made warmth spread through your whole body, toes curling when he suddenly spread your lips and pushed his middle and index finger into your entrance. 

Gazing down from your shoulder, he grabbed the fabric that had pooled around you and lifted it up hastily so he could see more of you. The sight of your bottom moving against his hands made him want to scrunch his eyes tight if he didn’t try to memorize the sight in front of him. The soft plumpness of your thighs looked so beautiful against his bloodied and dirty clothes, skin clean and soft. Ignoring the pain growing harsher, his other hand raised so he could run his hands along the warm skin, your back arching slightly as you rose on your knees. 

Placing soft kisses against the side of your waist that was now presented in front of his face, his hand trailed over to your bum as he slowly pumped his fingers into you, kneading the flesh roughly as he pushed your middle against him.

“Arthur.” Your quiet whining made his vision blurry, adding one more finger into your clenching hole as your nails marked half-moons into his skin. The tent was becoming scorching hot as you could feel the fever emitting heat from Arthur’s body, but his touch made you forget all about it, as you could only see white pleasure when his fingers massaged your inner walls. 

Grabbing his shoulders, you tried to push him down, but your protests were in vain as he slowly withdrew his fingers from you and gently laid you down on the mattress. For a moment, he stopped in his actions and stared at you, your blouse discarded on the floor as your plump breast had grown red from his assault and the skirt resting on your waist exposing your heat as slickness from your arousal covered your cunt and the sides of your thighs. 

But your face grabbed most of his attention as your eyes, which he had grown to love, stared back at him lovingly amidst the pleasure and want. A blush covered your face and ran down to your chest, which raced with your breath, hands restless as they seemed to almost reach out for him again. God, never had he thought you would actually look at him like this. 

An appreciative rumble left his throat as he grabbed your skirt and hoisted it down your legs, casting it hurriedly to his side as he grabbed your ankles and pushed you towards him, where he sat before you. To you, he didn’t move quick enough. Instead, he placed small, tender kisses on your ankles as he stared you down, seemingly etching you into his memory. Growing shy under his intense gaze, you try to push your legs together as he runs a finger down your slick heat, suddenly feeling very exposed without your skirt and the thought of someone entering the tent lingering in the back of your mind.

“Shh, shh, shh,” Arthur cooed at you as he pushed your thighs apart gently, your strength nothing against his as he did it with ease. “It’s okay.” A short moan left you at his words, staring at him through lidded eyes as your hands gripped the pillow under your head, not knowing where to put them. “Come ‘ere,” He whispered as he lowered himself over you, pressing his weight slightly against you as his bare skin against your nipples made your body jump, another moan leaving you from the pleasure. 

“Easy now, sweetheart,” As he rested his arms on either side of your face, he lowered his lips to yours as he pressed them against the soft skin, humming when he felt your legs wrap around his waist automatically. “You gonna be a good girl for me, hmm?” He asked when another blissful whine left you as his hand stroked up the softness of your stomach to your breast, gently rubbing your nipple with his thumb. 

“I will.” The words left you breathless as you suppressed the moans that wanted to escape you, your body growing restless against his teasing as your legs tightened against his waist, prompting him closer to you. The friction against your core felt incredibly good, but only lasted so long for Arthur to raise his hips to remove what was left of his union suit. 

As he pushed the fabric down to rest on his thighs hurriedly, your hands crept over his shoulders to run over his back, the skin still wet from the sweat running down his body under your fingers as they grew filthy from the dirt covering him and blood that had dried on his skin earlier. Grunting at your actions as you momentarily distracted him, he returned his hands to rest under your back so he could grip your shoulders. He’s probably going to get killed shortly, and if not from his injuries, from the sweet, hazy memory of you planted underneath him, staring at him like he was the only man in the world. 

You were his obsession, if not a full-fledged addict, after tonight, and he had trouble keeping his hands off you even though he knew he shouldn’t have you. Although, those thoughts were far gone now, for he yearned after you. Craved to bury himself into you–like injecting himself with that sweet high only you could bring him. 

Unable to help himself, he captures your lips again as he feels you giggle when his beard scratches your skin–a stark contrast in texture. The sound made him smile amidst his desperate actions as he tickled your waist slightly to feel you squirm against him. God, he had become soft. 

You are interrupted by the slow drag of his cock running over your puffy lips that glisten with want, eyes scrunching together as the anticipation of feeling him inside you grows more intense. He prods it around as it slips between your cheeks; you’re so slippery that it drives him right through and slides smoothly between your thighs, coating his hardness with your wetness.

Your eyes are blown wide as you look at Arthur through hazy eyes, gazing at his heaving chest as his whole body trembles. You could almost taste his desperation as the same one course through you when he grabs your hips and bends his own so he can find you–holding the weight of his cock as he slips it right in.

A gasp leaves your mouth, and he swallows the noises by planting his lips over yours. Immediately, he feels you clasp around him as you clench, the spongy, slippery walls hugging him tightly as he curses. It felt painful to press something so ugly into someone as beautiful and kind as you, but he was far too selfish to care; the need to keep the end of his promise of fucking you good was not something he was going to break, even though he could feel the lingering exhaustion threatening to make him pass out any second from the pain littering his shoulder.

Gritting through his teeth, the combined feeling of pain and pleasure coarse through his body as he slowly dragged himself out before sheathing himself into you fully. You welcomed him openly as your hands gripped his shoulders, his hands hustling your thighs up to rest beside your body as he almost folded you in half. 

Your mouth opens wider, lids dropping to cover half your eyes, with no hint of pain on your face. It leaves Arthur satisfied as he reminds himself to be gentle with you, his cock throbbing as his gaze flickers between your breast bouncing with each thrust and eyes hazy with pleasure–pleasure he was bringing you.

The lewd sound of him entering you fills the tent, and while he hopes it’s not audible outside, he isn’t sure he cares now. Although your quiet whimpers that you couldn’t help but let out, he wanted to keep to himself, pressing his hand against your mouth as he pounded into you harder.

“Tell me, sweetheart. Tell me how I make you feel.” He fails to conceal the possessiveness in his words as he mumbles out without thinking, too drunk in the feeling of your moans vibrating against his hands and pussy fluttering around his thick cock. He grits the words through clenched teeth, lifting his hands from your mouth so you can answer him. 

You look at him as he keeps thrusting, eyes glistening with unshed tears as you swallow him more profoundly into your cunt. “Arthur.” His name comes out in a broken, almost nonsensical voice as you find it hard to speak amidst his harsh thrusts that push you further up the bed every time. “Please, so good.” 

Your confession makes his eyes roll back, uninjured arm gripping the headboard as he repositions his hips, suddenly plowing into you harder as his face rests on your neck, body trapping you to the mattress to keep you in place. A slight sound left you from the sudden force, biting into your hand in desperation so you wouldn’t make a sound.

“Arthur!” A quiet gasp left you as he only groaned into your skin, breathing in your scent as his hips stayed relentless. “Ah, Arthur! Be careful!” Amidst your pleasure, you couldn’t help but worry when his arms extended limp beside you, and his weight grew even heavier on top of you as he almost laid down entirely if it wasn’t for his legs keeping him going. He was far too gone to comprehend what you were saying, though, as he fucks you hard but sweetly amidst his pain. 

You shudder with every thrust now, his uninjured arm on the bed circling around your waist as he pulls you tighter against him. You weren’t going anywhere from him as he planted a wet kiss against your pulse, the sweet sound of your pleas from both pleasure and worry surrounding him. God, if he didn’t know any better, this felt like a dream, your soothing hands caressing his skin as he panted above you, sweat running off him like a river and soaking the bed underneath you. You made a sound through your broken whines like he was torturing you with his cock, even though you were offering your cunt to him so willingly, the thought making his body grow taut.

Arthur’s hair was soaked entirely as you gripped it, hand looking for something to hold on to as your legs tightened around his waist. You couldn’t even move with his thrusts now–only able to lie there and let him take you. 

“Arthur–god!” You tighten around him one more time, and all you can see is white as he buries his head in your neck, groaning desperately as he ruts into your heat at a pace you didn’t think was possible in his state. Raising himself up on his knees, with the last ounce of his strength, he grabs your hips and lifts up your lower half as he rams his throbbing cock into you, balls unbearably tight as they slap against your skin.

“Jesus- that’s it, hold on to me,” He grits out as your cry is muted by his hands when your walls flutter around him as you come, shattering all over him through broken sobs. Your tender hands, made to mend people, both heart and skin, grip onto his rough ones, created instead to destroy. The feeling of them running so softly over his battered body made him feel like the most undeserving man alive. Despite this, he reveled in the thought of being the one to feel your hands on him.

When you came, it became the final straw for him as he could finally feel the pressure release into a sharp pleasure that nearly blinds him. Falling helplessly into your arms, he pushed your lower half into his as he ruts mercilessly into you, walking you through your own orgasm as the first spurt of cum seeps into you.

He almost felt like a dog as you pulled him deeper into you, unable to help the way his hips pushed against yours as he thrusts into you, a white ring of his cum seeping out from your hole as your hands gripped his waist tightly. His cock still moves slightly even when there’s nothing left as the high still courses through both of you, you lying limp and frail underneath his weight. 

Arthur knew he should move, but he spent all his strength, noticeably as the black dots that had filled his vision for some time grew bigger, panting like he had run a hundred miles into your skin as his body grew heavy on yours. 

Every dream he had of you could go to hell because this was the only remedy needed in his unlawful life. Now that he had a taste of you, you grew into his own brand of morphine as the haze Arthur found himself in would erupt his whole being into an addiction. It was heaven, unfiltered and raw and so beautiful to be inside you, and he knew that if he died now, heaven would be no match for what he had in his arms.

As your high lessened and your mind grew more apparent, you cradled Arthur’s head. You nuzzled your face into his hair, rubbing his shoulders tenderly as you basked in the aftermath, finally having him in your arms after months of uncertainty and pining. You rested your heels back on the mattress, sighing as his now softening member moved inside you, leaving you both satisfied and full. You stay like that for a while, basking in the afterglow, until you notice his whole body shaking terribly as he struggles to breathe.

“Oh, Arthur!” A worried expression filled your face as you tried sitting up, although his weight made it difficult for you to move him. “Arthur, I can’t move you on my own.” Resting your hand on his cheek, you try to examine his face as he buries it further in your neck, forehead scorching under your palm.

“Shit.” You rarely swore, but now you chastised yourself for letting this progress, although you knew you did at least put up a fair fight against the headstrong man. Strained breaths left him as he rose slightly from you and rolled on his back, a short gasp leaving you as he pulled out of your suddenly too-empty walls. 

Shaking away the feeling, you turn towards him as you realize his shoulder is bare, the bandage discarded on the bed. His wound looks wildly irritated and inflamed as a harsh redness surrounds his injury. “So stubborn.” You whispered as you threw the bandage down the bed, crawling over him to grab some fresh ones you had planned to take with you when you had tended to his wounds before. “You should be resting, but instead, you think it’s the perfect moment to have sex?”

As you looked over at him while redressing his shoulder, you found him gazing at you with humor in his weary eyes. You couldn’t help but lift the corner of your mouth as the reality of the situation dawned on you, chuckling as he poked your sides–your hand coming to slap his away jokingly. 

“God, you’re so beautiful.” His voice came out in a shudder as he stared at you, tripping over his words as a groan of pain left Arthur, having not let his body take the rest it desperately needed. Setting into motion, you swing your legs over the bed and grab the bottle of alcohol. 

“Here, drink up.” He raised his eyebrow as a strained smirk played in the corner of his lips. He got a bemused look at his attempt at lightening the heavy mood that had washed over you. 

“You try’na get me drunk?” Sighing at him, wondering how he had the energy to make jokes, you brought the bottle closer to his lips. Hesitating, though, you questioned yourself if Arthur waking up with a hangover tomorrow amidst his pain was a good idea, but there was no other way to dull his pain. 

“Do you want me to knock you out instead so you won’t feel the pain from overexerting your body?” Feigning horror, he still complied as he chugged the bottle empty. You grabbed it from his hand when he was done.

“You already did, darlin’,” He rumbled as he beckoned you to lay down with him, your head resting on his outstretched arm as you stared up at him. You grew quiet for a while; the only sound audible was your shared breathing as you traced circles on his stomach. Despite you worrying to death, you felt more content now than you had ever been. His confession had filled you with more happiness than you had ever thought possible, and now, as you lay in his arms, you felt dumb for ever thinking he despised you. 

You had been so stupid, but you also pointed some of your anger at Arthur for being such a brickhead and thinking you felt less of him for who he was and what he did. Well aware of who he was, you weren’t so innocent either to be too good for him, but you knew he didn’t see it that way. You could never leave him now that you had tasted how wonderful love could feel, especially after the scare he had brought you tonight. 

“I dreamed of you, ya know.” You turn your head to look at him as you are brought from your thoughts, hand ceasing its motion on his skin as it rests on his hand. Leaning his head down to the top of your hair, he kissed against it as he breathed in. You were like raw whiskey straight to an empty stomach. The way his mind goes blank from sliding his nose over the softness of your hair.

“What? Me?” 

“Mmh.” He rumbled out, chest shaking as the indistinct sound of his voice vibrated through his body. “Every night, you came to me like a goddamn angel or somethin’.” He knew he wasn’t good with words, and as the words left him, Arthur realized they didn’t do his clumsy confession justice, but the way you looked at him like he was the most wondrous thing you had ever seen made him believe it wasn’t too bad.

“Every night, I dreamed of you. Your eyes when you stare at me in that way you always manage to do, your hands that are always so unknowingly soft-” His eyes glint with mischief as he continues. “-your round ass pressed against me-” 

Gasping, you motion to hit him, but retract your hand when you remember his injuries. “Arthur!” You whisper harshly. “-your big words that make you look smarter than you are-” Raising onto your elbow, you give him an unamused look as he chuckles slightly at your reaction to his blatant teasing.

“If you’re planning on being so funny all the time, maybe you should have become a jester instead of an outlaw.” Squinting your eyes at him, he only brings his arm around your back to push your body against his once more, still shaking slightly from laughing. Settling down, he continued. 

“Christ, I longed for you in ways you couldn’t even imagine, sweetheart.” As his voice grew low, he returned his half-lidded eyes to you while stroking your hair softly. You felt a lump in your throat forming at his words. The sweet words that felt so unfamiliar coming from his mouth did nothing short of making you putty in his hand, now finding it hard to be mad at him for the apparent strain he had put his body through.

“Every night felt easier when I had you to dream about, but that was all I let it be, for we both know I really don’t deserve you.” This was unmistakably true to Arthur, for even though he had you in his arms right now, he knew you shouldn’t be. 

“Don’t stop, Arthur.” As you whispered, you gazed into his eyes, a fluttering erupting in your stomach as you wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him slightly as he pulled the blanket over your naked body. “Never stop dreaming of me.” Your voice trembled slightly.

“Why would I dream now that I have you?”

[a-world-with0ut-dr34ms]

John Price x Wife!Reader

Price has a tendency to wake up most mornings before you...

Tags: SFW, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Innocent, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Mornings, Wife Reader, Soft Price, Price is a little mopey, scarcely proofread

WC: 780~

Masterlist

Price rubs small circles in your back, feeling the stark comparison that had been the softest parts of your skin, and the most battered parts of his own.

Your body is warm against his, still, with the rhythmic rising and falling of your chest a comfortable weight against him. With each breath you drew, he's let his fingers trace gently alongside you, trailing down your spine as to detail every make and groove of your body.

Price had a tendency to wake up every morning before you; you've lost count of how many times you've woken up with breakfast being made in the kitchen or with him already gone for work. He always cherished his sleep, though it never came easy to him, even with the growing exhaustions of life.

What you didn't see in those mornings he woke before you, however, -- on days such as this where your slumber has pulled you in deeply, lips parted, and drool lightly doting your pillow -- was how his gaze would waver at every new sight of you.

It hadn't felt enough to pull you into his arms every morning, or to plant small kisses to your sleeping head as he rocked you slowly against him, whispering sweet nothings that only he could hear. It could never be enough, and it terrified him to know.

With you here like this, for a moment, the briefest of moments, borne fear. A fear that kept his other hand wrapped tightly around you as you slept. A fear which made him conscious of his touch and every way that he wished for it to never bring you harm. A fear of your absence, and the longing which follows to pocket every bit he could that would last him until the next encounter. A fear that made it hard to put into words, his voice having all but grown hoarse wanting to say to you how much he loved you.

True fear.

His blue eyes gaze back over to the clock at his bedside, restless to its inevitable ticking, knowing what each passing second entails...

Any second and that early morning alarm will ring, and once again, he must leave.

Any second now... and each one carried by the growing dread of the next...

"John..?"

You shift against him, your head lifting, until he's seen your gaze rest on his, a smile forming at the sight. You look half awake as is, your eyes still drooping and your mouth half-open.

Somehow, he felt you sensed his sudden discomfort. You always had a talent for it.

"What's wrong?" You ask.

Price looks down at you, meeting your gaze with a somberness to his own. "Nothin' love," he says. "Just not looking forward to work, is all."

"Mm," you hum.

And then, you lean forward, bringing your face closer to his. Having still been half awake, your movements are riddle in a sluggish manner, your hands sleepily clasping the scruffy sides of his face, fingers gently entangling within his beard. He's felt your warm breath tickle his chin, and its brought his blood to a light simmer, his heart pumping.

"Can I make your morning better?" You ask playfully.

Price smiles, letting his large hand cup the side of your face, bringing your head up so that your lips were matched with his, only but an inch away.

"You already make my mornings better just being here," he says, the morning raspiness of his voice having not left him yet. It tickles down your spine to hear it, every time.

"Sap."

Rather than divulge you in your banter, the man felt he had a better way to respond to you. Price kisses you softly, slowly, knowing these seconds were few and far between, needing to be savored within each moment.

You've told him once before that he kisses you as though every moment were a goodbye. His hands hold you with dedication, each parting breath from your lips short and longing to recapture your mouth with his. For a man as confident and bold as he was, his love had been the softest thing you've ever held.

You pull from his grasp once you've heard the alarm on his side of the bed ring for the fourth time without him so much as budging.

"I shouldn't make you late for work," you say.

Price merely reaches over and silences the alarm, before planting a few more kisses to your lips for good measure, letting his body cage you back onto the bed.

"They'll survive."

(づ ◕���◕ )づ

[tsumuhours]

AMERICAN JESUS PAIRING: suna rintarō x fem!reader TAGS: alternate universe – gang world, smut, oral, flirty suna WORD COUNT: 10k

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Whether it be in the form of finding an injured member of a notorious gang near your apartment, or trading silence for safety, or how he pulls you into a complicated relationship which goes against integrity and... possibly laws.

mature content !

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Not to say you haven't deserved half of the mandated karma – you haven't always been the best person, given the borderline psychopathic attempt of climbing to the top – but a break, or a nice surprise would be a great change in routines.

Whoever said success is a lonely road was, painfully, correct. To think that you spent your high school years working hard to get into an ivy league, spent those four years working at internships to make those desired connections people dream of!

Only to get out at the age of twenty-two and spend the next year as some glorified, under-paid, under appreciated, assistant. And no, that's not what the job description is supposed to entail, you're meant to be an associate – associates are not supposed to run around getting coffee – with the main purpose of developing your career and hopefully making partner in seven to ten years time.

Not to mention, since the city has unbelievable prices of living, you had to move to a neighbouring borough just for the possibility of having a studio apartment that isn't the size of a closet for the same price. Is it the most convenient?

No, not really, considering the fact the commute is over thirty-minutes and you have to go back and forth from work at unreasonable hours because your boss insists on bringing you to every little, insignificant meeting, or post-work drinks at nine at night – which is an excuse for the woman to spiral further into alcoholism – where you will inevitably end up carrying your boss back to her penthouse on the upper east side.

And no, it doesn't get better, because afterwards, after spending two hours at an expensive bar with the drunken, divorced, mess of a boss you have by the time she gets home safe, you're expected to deal with the city's delayed – and inconsistent – subway times at this ungodly hour and spend the next thirty-minutes in a train with rando's and sketchies.

Oh! No, that's not where it ends, because by the time you get off the subway, it's almost midnight, and you have to take a lovely – scary – ten-minute walk alone to your apartment, but walking anywhere at night is terrifying... Except for the rumour, or fact, that violence has been making its way around the borough, and according to new statistics – regarding the quarterly crime rate review – it's been looking a bit too stabby for your liking.

Now, this walk home is nothing different to how it is every day. You stride down the street with purpose, clutching your taser, and eerily aware of your surroundings. Although, remember how life always has a new way of fucking you over through some odd, irrelevant, way of testing your resilience?

This is one of those occasions.

Let's say it's not common for a man to be curled up in the small alley where residents keep their trash, but then again, crime rates have increased by a percentage that can make anyone uncomfortable – still, committing those types of crimes in a residential neighbourhood where people are simply trying to live their lives is ridiculous. Have some class.

Sure, as a law abiding citizen or natural samaritan would help, but no, not you. Living in a densely populated city means one thing, and one thing only, keep your head down. It's a game of see nothing, know nothing. Everyone minds their own business, that's how you stay safe and avoid danger – including scammers, or the random cult recruiters.

So, you intend on reaching for your keys to the front entrance of your small building, until you hear a small groan come from the neighbours dumpster alley. Sighing, you swallow your pride – and maybe your safety – holding your phone in one hand, and taser in another, and go over to look. The flashlight turned on, as you flash it on the curled up body.

You cannot see his face, but you instantly recognize the leather jacket and matching bandana. Of fucking course, out of everyone in the world, you happen to come across a member of a gang – as if this is some cruel joke from the universe. What do they call themselves? The Foxes? That awful group that parades around in black and maroon, with their emblem of a fox printed on leather jackets that they display for the world to see.

You're reluctant to step forward, maybe it's the threatening affiliation this guy has wound himself with, or the blood on his hands – literally and figuratively – as he grips onto the side of his stomach. The thing is, you've got a massive report to read over and playing doctor with someone is not on your list of side-quests – as it doesn't benefit your position, or reputability on the job any better. However, people are always watching, so if word were to magically get out that you saw a member of this notorious, tight-knit gang and ignored him, that could put a dangerous target on your back.

But, if you help him, you can probably lawyer your way into securing safety for your silence. You could exchange saving his life, for him, inevitably, saving yours in turn – ensuring that you're home, your spaces, where you are at all times is a no-go zone. Sure, that means turning your back on the entire legal system you've spent studying is thrown on the backburner, but you need to look out for yourself.

What is success if it means you've got strangers pinning a vendetta against you, and watching your every move before they strike? How could you ever reach partner if you get killed? How could you ever live with the benefits of making partner, if you get killed before you can exercise those benefits?

The short-term pride is not worth it if you don't get to brag about it... and silence for safety seems like the best option on the table. No one ever said that law always has to be good, it's unjust – at times – unfair and just as corrupt. Only ten percent of people who go into this job do it out of the good of their heart, the rest, the majority do it for the money and respect.

And it isn't part of your job description to be a good person, you're not a doctor. You didn't pledge to an oath about refraining from causing harm or hurt, or to act honestly and responsibility. No, you are conducting yourself with dignity and conscience – and as far as you care, freedom of speech and association still exists, and what you're doing isn't necessarily illegal unless you get recruited or actively participate in a crime.

And since when helping someone not die a crime? He's part of the Foxes, for christ sake. They can invoke power anywhere, he can potentially make you untouchable. You can live your life somewhat more peacefully if it means that safety is a guarantee. If you save one of them, they have no choice but to repay you. That's how the system works.

Sighing, you step closer, bending down to get a better look at him. Flashlight illuminating the severe wound on the side of his stomach, the blood surrounding his black top and his hands. "Fuck my life," you mutter. He's practically losing consciousness with every second, you doubt he's capable of standing up by himself, and there's no way you're going to attempt to fix him by a pile of trash.

So, you do what you can, gently lifting up his upper body, draping his arm around your shoulders as you begin to stand. God is he big, and getting him up the stairs will undoubtedly be a struggle. Still, as if on impulse, his feet start moving as you carry more than half of his weight towards the front door of your building, up the stairs to the second floor – where your apartment remains.

Forcefully, pushing open the door, you find all the strength in your body to lead him to the couch – internally crying at the stain that will taint the grey cushions – where he falls over and lays on his back. Absolutely winded, you walk into your bathroom, searching for that old – raggedy – first aid kit in the cupboards along with cotton balls and comically large band aids that you have no reason for owning.

God, it's as if this was planned, fucking written in the stars. Yes, you were meant to end up in this situation because you are one of the only people in the world who thought it'd be fun and convenient to own large band aids that can temporarily cover a stab wound. Good going!

Gathering all the materials in your hand, you walk over to the couch where he remains in limbo. Again, you're no medical professional, no, the most training you have consists of a short one hour life skills lesson and a topic on human physiology that was part of your biology course in high school. So, yes, you're a bit rusty – but that doesn't mean you're incompetent.

Kneeling down on the floor, scattering the items next to you on the floor, reaching for the cotton balls and bottle of disinfectant. But as your fingers graze over the skin on his torso to lift up his shirt, he flinches, and for the first time since running into him, you look at his face with an offended look on yours – as if he's able to see you through his shut eyelids.

He catches you off guard, the delicate and mesmerising features. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed eyebrows that mix in well with the discomfort he must be feeling. Yes, he's beautiful, but he's also bleeding out on your couch and part of an infamous gang that got himself stabbed. Letting out a frustrated, hmph, you lift up his shirt to examine the wound – as if you have any idea what you're doing.

First, you need to unarm him. You run your hands through the pockets of his cargos, pulling out a phone, wallet, and pocket knife, then dig through the pockets of his leather jacket finding nothing alarming.

Next, you cover your hands with latex gloves, then get to work. Letting the cotton balls absorb the disinfectant before running it along his skin, in which he finches in response. "Stop flinching, I'm helping you." You mutter, sure, maybe using water would be a better alternative than bathing him in on the shelf disinfectant, but water is not going to effectively clean him up.

You don't even know what you're doing, and your body, mind, even fucking adrenaline knows that by the way your hands shake. Do you need to stitch him up? You don't know how to suture a wound, you don't even know how to stitch! You don't even own string, yarn yes, but you doubt that sealing someone up with lilac yarn is the most sanitary or safe.

So, of course, you do the most reasonable thing and search it up, and given the short research it confirms that you don't have to do anything – then again, how many people get stabbed and don't receive certified medical attention?

Hands still shaking, you dive into the medical box, looking for antibiotic ointment. "I hate you, you know?" You begin speaking to yourself as you uncap the cream, "You're bleeding out on my couch. Is it a good couch? No, it is uncomfortable, and by the way your legs hand off the arm rests, it's not the biggest. But it's my couch, I found it on the street."

You apply the cream around the puncture, hearing his quiet groans and incoherent murmurs. After that, you reach for the band aid – or non-adherent pad as they call it – peeling off the back and gently placing it over the puncture. It's not a good replacement for proper medical care, but it will suffice until he manages to crawl his way back to wherever he lives and gets professionally treated.

"You better pay for a new couch, or a deep cleaning." You continue, beginning to pack up all your things before standing as you remove your gloves, and move to the kitchen to toss them out. "I have things to do, you know?" You say from the kitchen, washing your hands thoroughly.

That's partially a lie, the things you claim to have insist on reading a fucking brief or case while sitting on your couch watching something on Netflix – because cable is a waste of money – with one of many microwave meals stocking up your small white fridge. Still, this momentary distraction has moved those plans to tomorrow night. A Saturday night.

"I don't know who you are, or what your rank is in this stupid gang of yours, but I don't care." You continue your rant, grabbing a glass of water and pain-killers – placing them on the small cushioned ottoman, because who has the space to own a coffee table? – pacing back and forth in your apartment, where you can finally kick off your shoes by the front door and grab the purse you discarded by the small circular dining table next to the fridge. "I have work to do."

You storm towards your bedroom, dumping your purse on your bed and digging through it for your laptop and thick file, then you grab a highlighter sitting on the bedside table. And hopefully by the time he wakes up, you would have done something worthwhile and beneficial to your career.

So, yes, in conclusion, life always has a weird way of fucking you over. 

An hour has passed since you fixed up the stranger who lays, practically comatose, on your couch. Since then, you've changed out your clothes, showered, and gone through at least fifteen pages of this case you're supposed to assist with and eventually write a report for. Sitting in bed, music softly plays through your laptop as you bite on the end of a highlighter, re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

It's safe to say that your mind is a bit distracted, maybe it's the fact you're harbouring a criminal in your apartment, waiting for him to wake up and possibly kill you. The Foxes are notorious for many things, heists, robbery, petty murder, but particularly famous for the sale of illegal goods – whether it be drugs, or unlicensed arms – and you happen to have one sitting in your living room.

All for what? The fear of getting murdered? Having a target on your back? Trading integrity for safety? To be fair, those are all valid reasons why you've decided to take him in. You can call the police, turn him in, do greater good for the grand community. He's docile and helpless right now, you've searched him for weapons and you keep his belongings hostage on your bed. But, what are the cops going to do?

You hear a groan coming from the living room, and immediately shoot up from the bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and feeling them hit the cold wooden floors as you turn around to grab the baseball bat leaning against the mattress.

The first, and big thing he feels is pain. An unbearable type of pain on the side of his stomach. He places a hand over the plaster, expecting to feel blood or an infection, but jolts awake when he's proven wrong. He sits up, painfully, and scans the apartment for any sign that will tell him where he is. The messy decor of the room, the glass encased bookshelf that's filled to the brim with trinkets, novels, DVD's, CD's, and records. Behind him, on the wall are framed movie posters and paintings. Lamps, candles, and a full wall tapestry behind the tv. A plethora of coats and bags hanging on the door. So much clutter in this little living room.

He turns his gaze to the small kitchen, a shelf lined with snacks, spices, a bowl of onions and garlic, and a concerning amount of liquor. On the counter, are dishes, coloured pots and pans, empty jars. Whoever lives here loves their fair share of pink, grey, and light blue cups, bowls, and plates. They apparently also love their fair share of tea and instant chai latte mixes, and colourful string lights.

He has no idea where he is, or who happened to pick him up from the streets. All he knows is that he was ambushed by the Crows and left for dead, talk about sending a fucking message. Understandably, he turns his head to look behind him, where you stand holding a baseball bat to your side. He reaches for his pocket, where his knife always remains, only to feel nothing. You've disarmed him.

While he should be focusing on that thought. The logical sense that you must know who he is; hence why you've hidden all his belongings and why you're holding a baseball bat for defence, or the fact that you must've called the police by now. But no, his mind is focused on who you are, why you've brought him into your apartment to avoid death, and how those little shorts look on you. Those little black shorts, that tank top, and that big knitted cardigan.

So what if he's about to get arrested, he loves this sight.

"You brought me here?" He asks, watching the way you nod your head.

"You were bleeding out near a pile of trash, and while I considered leaving you for dead, I figured that I could get something out of saving your life." You explain nonchalantly, well as nonchalant as you can given that you've invited a known criminal into your house.

"Who do you work for?" He questions. There are always upcoming rivals or new recruits circling the scene, they love dirty work and favours – an eye for an eye – and will extort, abuse, and come up with the worst reparations. While you don't look threatening at all, especially in that little outfit, he can't underestimate you.

"Specter and Hastings, the law firm." You reply, causing him to laugh out of pure irony. Out of everyone he could have gotten entwined with, it had to be a lawyer. The universe really loves to play games on him, doesn't it?

"What do you want?" He sighs, "Names? Operations? You want me to snitch?" He'd rather die than rat out his friends, his family, just cuff him and take him down to the station because he's not speaking.

"No." You say, "I want safety." A flash of curiosity flashes across his face, allowing you to elaborate. "I want to make sure that wherever I go will be unharmed, untouched, or fall victim to whatever wars you guys get into. I want to be left out of danger, and never have to worry about getting followed home, mugged, or stabbed. I want the guarantee of safety... for my silence."

"What?"

"Is it so hard to understand?" You huff, "I save your life, you look out for mine. And in doing so, I will pretend that I didn't potentially break a law by not turning you in, I will turn a blind eye and ignore that tonight ever happened."

She's looking out for herself. He can't blame her. If anyone were to find out that she left him for dead, she would be a target. However, as someone whose job literally regards the law, you can't blame him for thinking you're hypocritical and maybe the slightest bit untrustworthy. If you can't even stick by your career, how can he expect you not to snitch on him?

"So?" You say, "Is that a good arrangement?"

"I can't guarantee anything sweetheart," he claims.

"Fine, then can you at least keep the stabbings out of this neighbourhood?" You question, "When I get home at night, I'd rather not come across another bloody body and risk getting more blood on my couch out of fear of being targeted."

That he can do. He can tell the guys to avoid this particular area, in exchange for a stranger – who happens to be a lawyer – that saved his life. Not to mention, you didn't call the cops, didn't turn him in, and you're supposedly open to turning a blind eye. In regards to the blood he got on your couch, he can easily fix that. He nods, "That I can do." There's no reason why he should deny anything, you already know he's part of the Foxes – that's the only reason you bothered saving him – and you are well aware about the culture and how no good deed goes without payment.

"Okay, great." You nod, resting the baseball bat against the frame, you've negotiated poorly, and your terms and conditions are promised to be met. Now, you can move along with your life. "Excuse me for a moment," you say, disappearing back into your bedroom to gather up all the things you took from his pockets.

In your short-lived absence, the man glances over at the painkillers and glass of water on the ottoman. He grabs the packet, reading the warning on the bottom half of the box that informs the users of the small percentage of codeine and its addictive properties, only to ignore it and swallows down the pill. It's drugstore painkillers, so of course, it's not going to be the strongest but when it kicks in, it'll help.

You return holding his things, hanging them to him before sitting on the curved back armchair next to the couch. You are unsure of what to do, or say to the brunette. You've never been put in a situation where a gang member is sitting in your apartment, wounded, and you've offered up your silence in turn of safety. Is it time for you to kick him out, or should you try to make conversation?

He, on the other hand, glances down at his phone, texting away to his friends about what happened and how he'll be back soon. There's no doubt that they're all mad about the situation, how he got ambushed by their rivals, and left by a pair of trash bags to bleed out. Though, it's not all that bad, he got saved by a pretty girl who graces him with skimpy shorts and a tank top that loves to plague his imagination. Better yet, this girl happens to be a lawyer, and if he plays his cards right, he can get a run down of loopholes and secure defence.

"So, do I get a name?" You ask, wrapping your cardigan closer around your body. "Or is that confidential? I'm not going to rat you out, I'm barely a lawyer, let alone a narc. And I need a solid ally in case anyone part of your... um, group ambushes me."

"We're allies now?"

"Are you going to give me a name or what?"

You've already seen his face, and he doubts you'll ever be able to say anything to the authorities without ratting yourself out in the process. Also, he's sure he's never going to see you again, or the maximalist, messy design of your apartment... including the row of CD's and records that you keep in that bookshelf despite being in the age of digital streaming.

"You can call me Rin," half a name, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, Rin is good, or Suna, whatever floats your boat." If he could, he'd try and leave, but he doubts he's in a good enough physical state to do so. Also, being stuck in an apartment with a pretty girl makes him want to stay even more. "Do I get a name from you?"

"No."

"Whatever you say sweetheart," Suna shrugs. "So... a lawyer, what made you go down that route?" He questions, wanting to get his mind off the unbearable ache in his body and sharp pain on his side, as he lays back down on the couch. Might as well get some information on you while he's here.

"I'm doing it for the money." You reply, crossing one leg over the other – unaware of how his eyes follow your movements – as you lean back against the seat, finding some sort of strange comfort in talking to a criminal. "I'm an associate, and in ten years I hope to make partner and move out of this place to somewhere closer to my job. I'm aiming for an apartment on the upper east side, maybe west."

"Is that all?" He hums, watching as you glare at him, "Just for the money?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?" You remark, "For the money, so we can sustain ourselves and live. And it's not like I'm doing court law, or criminal justice, I'm mainly interested in business law – contract and tort law – which is what my firm focuses on, including divorce law, because that's where all the money is."

"So, you're just a lawyer who conveniently knows how to bandage up a wound and goes around saving gang members?" Suna comments, "Oh, and how can I forget the whole trading a life thing for safety."

"Well, it's better than running around on the streets causing havoc." You retort, "Besides, becoming a lawyer is in my blood, meaning both my parents are lawyers and I was told as a young girl that I'd be a good one. Whether or not that was a compliment, can be debated. It's a stable career, a respectable one, and once I move up the ranks, I'll be able to order myself town cars."

"And law is something you really want to do?"

You're quiet for a moment before getting up to walk to your kitchen to brew yourself a cup of tea, "Yes. It is. I don't see what else I could do; the arts are a dying career where only one in a million makes a name for themselves, I don't plan on being the next big entrepreneur, and I hated biology and anything medical." You flip on the kettle, hearing it begin to boil as you dig through your tea bags. "Besides, law seemed easy enough, and there's nothing wrong with sitting through prenuptial meetings."

Suna feels a lot better about getting trapped with a lawyer now. He was initially scared of getting trapped with a potential narc with a six-foot pole up their ass, but you, you're just like every other sleazebag lawyer who's in it for the money. It's refreshing.

"Yeah, and I guess there's that whole thing of justice, but I don't even work in that field." You continue, "The justice system is fucked up anyway, and why would I want to contribute to that? I mean, I could get an innocent life out of prison but then again, I could fuck up and let a guilty person run free or risk them getting a reduced sentence. But, I don't work in that type of field, I just praise the people who do."

You wait for the kettle to finish boiling, and once it does, you pour the water into your mug, adding in honey or sugar into the mix before walking back to the living room. Not before grabbing a bag of chips from your shelf, tossing it at him. He is a guest, can't be that rude.

Reluctantly, Suna accepts it. He hasn't been around you long, but the way you've abandoned your baseball bat and returned all his belongings must mean you don't see him as that big of a threat. Well, how could you? You saw him at his weakest, and he hasn't given you a reason to be afraid... or he hopes he hasn't. Additionally, you're not that much of a threat either, you're smart enough to get through law school, attend an ivy, and work as an associate at a well-known firm in the city. And while he doesn't see much of what you do in your private life, he can see the few small framed photographs on the lamp tables next to him.

He can see you partying with friends, clearly drunk at the time when the photograph was taken, which must mean that you do know how to have fun in whatever spare time you have. Also, your refusal to give him a name eliminates the idea of him ever searching you up online. Meaning, whatever worries he's supposed to have can easily be debunked.

"So, what exactly is your role?" You ask.

"I work in the background, I help plan out whatever, I stay on guard, I'm there to protect them." He explains as vaguely as he can, not wanting to give the gorey details of his role or job description. By the way you nod, it's clear you accept that fact since you don't bat an eye or demand an explanation. Both of you know that the less you know the better. "Are you not scared of me?"

You can't blame him for wondering. Usually, you'd be terrified or the slightest bit frightened, but enough has happened tonight to make talking to a criminal the most normal thing. However, he's not exactly the worst presence. Sure, you can see the way he's looking at you, feel his gaze burn into your skin, how they trail up and down your body – and while it gets a piece of your heart racing, at least you know that he isn't planning on harming you.

"No." You shake your head, "I mean, you probably would scare me if I were to be walking alone on the street at this time of night, and I would definitely be terrified if you happened to be with all your friends. But you're alone, in my apartment, I can see your face, and you're wounded. You can't hurt me, at this point in time, I'm a lot stronger than you."

Unfortunately, you make a good point. He doubts he can walk comfortably, let alone act as a proper threat. "Right, of course," he hums, noticing the obvious blood stain on your couch. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." He comments, "I'll get you a new couch."

"Good," you say, biting back a smile. "I'd prefer one in cream, or even this light grey. In terms of style, I'd like one with a wider back and comfy cushions – like a cloud couch – if you can find one that will fit this apartment, that'd be great."

Suna's lips twitch up in a smile as he listens to you give him a detailed description, you avoid his eyes, staring down at the steam coming out of your mug. He tries to sit up to get your attention before it fades away – and for the act of dramatics, he lets out an exaggerated groan, which causes you to rush towards him – you place your mug on the lamp table behind you and crawl onto the floor in front of him.

You push him back down onto the couch, the force being more painful than when he tried to get up, you lift his shirt up to examine the damage you poorly tried to cover up, it looks fine physically, but you can't imagine what he's feeling. "I can't do much, as I said, I'm not a licensed medical professional." You say, moving down his stained shirt. Your touch ignites a trail of flames along his abdomen that takes all his willpower to fight.

"At least, I'm alive and not curled up by a pile of trash." He remarks.

"Yeah, but who's to say that's going to happen again?" You question, "Next time you get into a situation like this, I can't guarantee that someone will be there to patch you up in time."

"If it's not you patching me up, I don't want to live."

"Oh," you say, surprised, backing up from him. "Well, that doesn't give you an excuse to show up to my doorstep all bloody if it does end up happening again."

It has been a week since you've seen Suna.

Last friday you were nursing a gang member back to life with the promise of safety for silence, and a new couch – both of which you aren't sure you're going to get anytime soon. Instead, you still clutch your taser while you walk home, and you've done your best to wash the stain on the couch cushion. However, nothing is getting rid of that disgusting, faded stain, so you've opted to flip it over and hope time will make you forget.

The individual lamps and overhead lights illuminate the apartment, the candles flames are burning– casting a mixed scent of florals, vanilla, and lavender – creating the perfect ambiance for a Friday night in.

You sigh, collecting a mountain of rice – from your ready-made curry – on your spoon, curled up on your couch, gaze fixed on the television that plays an old show you were obsessed with in your teens. Beside you, is a glass of wine filled with ice cubes, and the bottle is placed on the floor awaiting refill. What else is there for you to do than stay home on a Friday night?

"Previously on Pretty Little Liars," you hear play through the speakers, shoving a mountain of food into your mouth, "It's Mona– Hanna won so Mona loses..."

You sink down into the couch, suddenly engrossed in the recap. It's been a while since you've had time to catch up on television, so the recaps serve a well-needed purpose to remind you of the over-the-top drama and plethora of plotholes. There is nothing better than unwinding after a long, long, week at work. Grabbing the wine glass, ice cubes clinking as you bring the drink up to your lips.

It's an odd combination, putting ice cubes in wine– that's unheard of – but you don't mind the diluted taste, also, you aren't the biggest fan of wine, it just seemed classier than making yourself a sad looking cocktail. Though, given the fact you're watching one of the more questionable teen mystery dramas, wine with ice does not seem like the worst situation.

You could have easily gone out, but all your friends are all too tired to go out, and drinks at bars are far too expensive. And let's be honest, going out by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing things a person could do, also that would mean walking home by yourself intoxicated. Obviously, that's not the smartest or safest decision, given the current rise in crime.

Engrossed in the show, absentmindedly feeding yourself until you're scraping the plastic container with your spoon picking up scraps. Sighing, you slide off the sofa, dragging your feet towards the kitchen where you toss out the empty container and dump your spoon into the sink. Half of your attention is still focused on the television, not wanting to miss anything going on.

Drifting back towards the couch, leaning against the armrest as you refill your wine glass, bringing the bitter alcohol to your lips and tasting it on your tongue. This will be your second glass of the night, the first glass came and went as quickly as the previous episode did.

A loud knock on the door sounds throughout the apartment, causing you to choke on your drink. Frightened, you place the glass down on the lamp table, pushing yourself away from the couch as cautiously and quietly as you can. Walking on your tiptoes back to the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a knife.

Of course you're not going to open the door, you're not stupid. You're simply going to sit against it, clutching the knife until whoever is on the other side goes away... like a responsible, intelligent, adult. It could be someone with the wrong address, despite how persistent they are on knocking. And no criminal would think of knocking either!

Maybe you should turn off the television, give the illusion that no is home, or alternatively, you could turn the volume all the way up and drown out the sound of their fist pounding against wood. Nevertheless, hiding out in front of this door with a knife seems like the safest option. If things go wrong, and the intruder does break in, you can stab them and leave their body on the street.

Crime isn't news around this area, unfortunate things occur all the time! And the police, being police, won't bother stepping in. It's an accidental murder in a bad part of town, or another victim to gang violence, they won't bother finding out it was a kitchen knife that caused the death. Morally, will it crush you? Yes. It will.

You lean back against the door, the continuous knocks do not falter... Until they do, you hear them rest their head against the wood. Maybe they've finally given up. Slowly, you get up from the floor, the faint noise of police sirens flying by. You backpedal until your back hits the counter, reluctantly, you place the knife on the surface behind you.

Heart racing in your chest, then you hear it. You hear him. "Sweetheart, open the door." His voice is muffled, but a simple piece of wood is not going to hide the exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please," he adds.

You hope that your home isn't the new hideout for gang members running from the police, but you can't stop yourself from quickly striding towards the front door and swinging it open. "Oh my god," you gasp, catching him in your arms before he plummets onto the floor. Stumbling back, you quickly catch your balance and drop him on the couch – the same way you did last week – where he falls back, arms resting on the back cushions.

Apparently, Suna has taken an involuntary liking towards you and insists on showing up outside your apartment, and door every time he gets hurt. At least, this time around, he's not shot, stabbed, or badly wounded, he just looks a little... beat up. Busted lip, and black eye that's beginning to form. You know this is not the time, but god does he look so good.

Lord knows what he's gotten himself into, why he's bruised or why out of all the places he could run, he ran here... to you. What happened? Why is he suddenly out of breath, unable to stand, and exhausted on your couch? You climb over him, straddling his lap, and grab his face between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" You huff, slapping the side of his face to jolt him awake, "This is no time for a nap Rin, you need to tell me what happened."

Even in this dazed state of mind, even after running five blocks, being chased by both the police and the Crows as a distraction while his team can get away. Getting cornered, beat up (not as bad as the others), picking the lock to get into your building, then running up the stairs, and waiting for you to let him in. He can still appreciate the sight in front of him, including those shorts, his hands running up your thighs, leaning his head back while his lips turn up into a smirk.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I had to run, and believe it or not, this is the safest place for me." He mutters, sitting up to lean in close to you. "And I know you won't refuse me," he hums. Suna's breath is hot against yours, his touch running up and down your thighs setting a fire to burn and a shiver to involuntarily run down your spine. He kicks off his shoes, opting to make himself comfortable on your couch.

"This is not your safe haven," you scoff, pressing a hand flat on his chest to push him back from you as you climb off his lap. You storm over to the kitchen, opening the small freezer hatch on your fridge to pull out a frozen bag of peas for his eye. Sure, it's not your job to care for him, but you can't help doing it – as if it has been engraved in your memory after one experience. You toss the frozen peas at him, which he luckily knows what they're for. "I did you a favour, which you have yet to return, by the way."

He holds the frozen bag of peas up to his eye, this is not the warm welcome he's been expecting, and for your information he has kept up one side of his deal. He has kept your street a no-go zone, and he has been making sure that you are safe. Sure, his methods are a bit stalkerish, he's been trailing you to and from work – lurking from the shadows and wiping out any potential threats that come your way. In terms of the new couch... he's working on it.

"Don't tell me that you're running from the police," you say, beginning to pace back and forth in your living room. "What do you think you're doing?" You exclaim, "You can't keep coming here to hide from the police! Do they know what you look like? Do they know that you came here? Do you know that my entire career can be ruined?"

"Calm down sweetheart," Suna hums. "No one knows I'm here, you're fine. And speaking of the police... yeah, I'm running from them, but I managed to get away through a couple short cuts. Trust me, you're safe." He stands from the couch, one long stride taken to reach you, his hands running down your arms in a somewhat reassuring manner. With one hand tilting up your chin, "And I wanted to see you."

His eyes are mesmerising, a perfect combination of green, yellow, and grey. It's hard to not melt under their gaze. Your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his touch away from your face before turning on your heel to walk towards your bedroom. He hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away. Maybe this is the universe repaying him for almost dying, it sent an angel in the form of you.

"Wanted to see me," you mutter to yourself, packing up the mess on your bed. The files, loose papers, highlighters, notes, and your laptop. You move them to sit on your cluttered vanity. "As flattering as that is," you continue, "I'd rather you come see me when you're not running from law enforcement. You owe me."

"Sorry to add insult to injury, but I was wondering if I could camp out here for the night?" Suna asks, leaning against the doorframe of your room. He knows you're not going to deny him refuge, whether you want to admit it or not. You don't have it in your heart to leave him out in the rain. Even if you want him gone, he's not going to leave. He's never been that good at taking hints – hence the black eye and busted lip. "Just for the night."

"One night." You sigh, "Only if –" there's always a catch "– you avoid robbing my bank, and stay clear of where I work, and make sure that everyone knows that. And no more attracting police to this side of town," you list. "And if you're going to stay here frequently, I'm going to need some sort of compensation."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." You nod, "now," you begin pushing the brunette back into the living room and onto the couch. Since he's here, may as well check up on how that old stab wound is going. You force him down onto the sofa, his back hitting the cushions – the wind escaping his lungs – as you lift up his shirt. There's still a nasty cut that's bound to turn into an even worse scar, but at least it's healing correctly.

"You sure are quite aggressive," he comments, propping his head up with his hands as he looks up at you. "I don't mind, kinda like it." He purrs, softly laughing at the way you pull his shirt back down and storm up off the ground, grabbing your wine glass and downing the rest of the contents. "I was just teasing babe, no need to overreact."

"Are you aware that you're an idiot?" You comment, placing your glass and the wine bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Do you like that I'm an idiot?" He retorts. He's got a bit of a little infatuation with you. A hot shot associate with a morally grey high ground, and a weakness for criminals like him. It is not everyday a pretty normal girl like you fixes him up and lets him into the apartment while he's running from the cops.

"The same way I like how I continuously find myself harbouring a fugitive." You reply, "It could be better. And can you please either use the frozen peas or put them back in the freezer."

You have better things to do! Sure, the situation could be worse. At least Suna is decent to look at, and he's alright company who doesn't want to kill you, and you have felt the slightest bit safer on your walks to and from work. Though, it's not like you're thrilled to have him in your apartment.

He gets up from the couch, places the peas back where they belong, then slides in next to you. He grabs the wine bottle, taking a swig from the bottle. You watch him intently, the way his Adam's apple moves, the beginning traces of a bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his lip. He still wears that stupid leather jacket, but at least there's no blood on his hands, legs, or torso. Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye, holding the bottle firmly in his hand, "Take a picture. It lasts longer."

"I would," you say, "but that would mean proving a direct affiliation with you. And lord knows if you ever get caught, I'd rather die than testify in court and risk losing all respect I have in this industry."

"I get it," he shrugs, "I'm bad news, but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily a bad person. I mean, you make money off people's brokens marriages, shouldn't that equate to something? I think that we both do bad things, but we're not bad people."

"Comparing me to you is a low blow," you snort. "That's like comparing apples and oranges."

"They're both fruit aren't they? They both grow on trees, they both make juice." Suna argues, "One is sure, significantly better than the other, but that all depends on personal preference."

You meet his eyes, seeing nothing other than the greyish-green hues. He's got that tough exterior that can draw any girl toward him – including you – the danger that people write about, the allure and flirty personality that makes him less of an asshole and more human. He is the fallen angel that the universe sent to you as a form of twisted karma and dilemma of morals that cross a line. He's beautiful, prideful, a criminal, but has got a strong sense of loyalty and protection. Why else will he make himself the scapegoat to every situation?

"Yeah, well, anyone with a brain can tell who's the better one of the both of us."

"If this is about breaking the law," he says, placing the bottle down on the counter. He steps in front of you, trapping you between his arms, pushing you back against the counter as his body presses against yours. "You're breaking a lot by being here with me, hiding me from the law, trading silence for safety, I'm sure there's something in the constitution that you've broken by not turning me in." He lowers his voice, dipping his head down to yours, "I'm sure if I string enough together, you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

"That's one thing out of the many covering your roster."

He bends down, lips brushing against your own. Heart pounding against your chest. He's so close. Remnants of his cologne fill your senses; oak, wood, musk, sweet amber, cardamom, raspberry. He's addictive in all the ways he shouldn't be. A real fallen angel. Beautiful, perfect, but dangerous, treacherous, and duplicitous. But what does that make you? You're addicting, the light in his dark tunnel, his bittersweet obsession that he cannot indulge in.

"You don't care." He rasps, "If you did, you would have kicked me out. You like me, you like having a dirty little secret, you fucking revel in it."

You don't respond, verbally that is. You break the small gap between the two of you. He reciprocates the action, deepens the kiss, presses you further back against the counter. A hand gripping your hip, while the other travels up your neck, holding under your jaw tight between his fingers. His body against yours, fingers wrapping around the belt loops of his jeans trying desperately to pull him closer. It's messy, driven, and lustful.

Your hands travel under his shirt, feeling the burning skin and the shiver that runs down his spine. The hand he has on your hips, his fingers dig harder into your side while the one around your neck shifts to the nape, reaching up to tug at the roots of your hair. The throaty moan that he elicits from you sends him into overdrive, fuck you're addictive. He wants you, so bad. He needs you.

Palms placed flat on his stomach you step forward, pushing him back onto the couch. He takes in the sight of you, standing over him in those little shorts and tank top that hugs your body so well. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, and his hands instinctively run up the back of your thighs, sliding under your shorts. Rough hands making themselves comfortable, holding the flesh in his hands, squeezing hard as he helps you grind down onto him. He's hard as a fucking rock, and your moving against him so needy. The friction against your clit, slow and tortuous, small whimpers and staggered breaths that Suna swallows.

Your hands move to move the leather jacket off his body, which he tosses across the living room, leaving him in a black muscle tee that shows off all the hidden, scattered tattoos on his arms you've never had the pleasure of seeing. His fingers grab the front of your tank top, tugging down the fabric to expose you to him. His cold hand cupping your tit, the pad of his thumb running over a hardened nipple as goosebumps scatter down your body and you press down further into the bulge in his jeans.

"Fuck," he groans at your reaction, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw, neck, collarbones, before his lips wrap around your chest. His tongue pressing against you, teeth grazing your skin, while his hand continues to work and massage against the other.

Your back arches, hands tangling themselves in his brown hair, continuously grinding against him as his leaves scatter hickey across your chest. "Sweetheart, you're killing me." He murmurs, reconnecting your lips together. You hum against him, lifting your arms in the air as he pulls off your top, throwing it across your apartment before he does the same with his shirt.

You begin to kiss down his chest, his torso, his stomach, falling down to the floor in front of him – between his legs – as you undo his belt. Suna's eyes fixed on you, the sweetly dangerous glimmer in your eyes as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He lips his hips, allowing you to pull them down – jeans and briefs – letting his clothes drop to the floor. He shudders the second your hand wraps around his dick, head dropping back and hands gripping onto your hair.

Wrapping your lips around the sensitive tip, you tease the spot hearing desperate whimpers escape his throat. Tongue flat against him, head beginning to bob back and forth, cheeks hollowing out as you literally suck the soul out of him. The salty taste of pre-cum on your tongue, his hands firmly entwined in your hair as he lets out a strain of whimpers, bucking his hips up, controlling your movements making you take him deeper in your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

Tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Head moving back and forth at a faster pace, his hands knotted in your hair as he takes control, fucking your mouth. Looking up through teary eyes, laying eyes on a sinful sight. His abdomen flexing, head thrown back, eyes shut, and Adam's apple moving at every repressed whimper and moan. You grip onto his thighs as he increases his pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Breathless moans coming out in repeated pleas that chase a high. He's so close, impatient, and seeking a heavy and desperate release. "Just like that baby, keep going."

You don't stop, you continue as a mess of fallen tears, pre-cum and saliva. You can't breathe, throat filled with his cock. He fucks your throat, using you for pleasure. He fucks your mouth, swollen head hitting the back of your throat, shuddering as you to swallow or gasp for air. You feel his dick twitch, and in seconds a hot load is shot down your throat and his grip on you loosens. You swallow down his cum, tongue and lips cleaning him up. Once, your lips remove themselves from his cock, he wastes no time to pull you up and reconnect your lips, tasting him on your tongue. You stand from your knees, and he pulls down your shorts along with the simple black panties, then pulls you down onto the couch, laying you on your back.

He hovers over you, hand wrapping itself around your throat as he kisses you. The other, spreads your leg, calloused rough fingers pressing against your cunt. Using the arousal to rub against your clit, a harsh play of light and rough. Fingers pressing hard against your clit, causing a strained moan to sound through the living room, he rubs against the bud. Playing between teasing movements, to forceful mechanisms. He's fast and slow, teasing you, edging you.

"Rin," you muster out, biting down on his lip which pushes him to give you what you need. Working his fingers swiftly, skillfully, roughly against your clit. You squirm beneath him, he's vicious against you, his free hand kneading your tit in a hard grasp. "Fuck, Rin." You moan, chest rising and falling, as he quickens his pace. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you grip onto the armrest of the couch, mouth agape.

Legs twitching, as he brings you to an insatiable climax. His fingers are covered in your slick. He brings them up to his mouth, getting a taste of what he's missing out of. He doesn't waste time, wrapping your legs around his shoulders before he buries himself in your cunt. Lips wrapping themselves around your clit, sucking on it, his tongue moving at a rapid pace. He feels how sensitive you are. Fingers digging into your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You're a mess, a writhing, mess. And the way he looks up at you through half lidded eyes, buried between your thighs. You sink your hands into his hair, looking for something to hold onto. A groan rumbles in his throat, sending you farther over the edge. He increases his pace, devouring you like a starved man who hasn't eaten in years. He's pushing you over the edge, your heels digging into his back, pulling at his hair, forcing him deeper into you.

To add fuel to the fire, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curling into your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips into his mouth. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, perfectly matching the pace of his tongue. He continues until he feels you come undone, pleasure and heat clouding your vision as he pulls away from you. He examines the sight, leaning in close to you.

"I need to feel you." He pleads, the blood already rushing back to his dick, "I need you sweetheart."

You nod, "Please." Whispering, "It's fine, I'm on the pill." You reassure.

He almost collapses right there and then, letting out a whimper as he slides into you. Feeling you raw and whole, he's going crazy, losing his mind at the way you suck him in. Your walls around his dick, warm and so good that he could come right there and then. His find is spinning, he's going absolutely feral over being in you. He slowly moves out, before bottoming out, stealing your breath in the process. That's all he needed, the feeling of having you grip around him.

Suna thrusts into you, picking up a faster speed and your ragged breaths urging him on. He revels in the way your tits bounce, his movements causing the sinful shake of your body. Your nails digging into his back, scratching the skin. If he could save this as a permanent memory in his mind, he would, and he'd replay it over and over again in his dreams. He bottoms out, rolling his hips each time he does so, thrusting in and out at a faster speed and pace.

He then pulls out, the lack of touch jolting you back from your daze, only for him to flip you over onto your stomach, harsh grip on your hips as he lifts your ass in the air. He grips onto the flesh, holding it in his palms while he tugs them towards him in a big thrust. You let out a moan, face buried into the couch cushions, as he pounds into you.

Dick reaches deep into your cunt, watches you shake under him, the couch shakes, and the lamps shake. He holds both your wrists in his hands, pinning them behind your back, as he pushes himself faster, rougher, crazier than he did before. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the apartment, mixed in with your strained whimpers and his throaty groans. "You like this?" He mutters.

This is so much better than he imagined. All the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower and in bed. The thought of you crumbling beneath him, moaning out his name, becoming nothing but putty underneath him. The thought of him pounding into you relentlessly, feeling you bare and raw, the way your walls wrap around his cock. Imagination never could have prepared him for this, it's so much better than he imagined.

You're so wet around him. He fucks into you, in and out so quickly that you can't even grasp onto the feeling despite your cunt quivering and tightening around him every time he fills you. He lands a hard slap on your ass, only to rub over the red spot, roughly massaging and kneading the flesh. Suna continues to go harder, faster, more feral, moving both your hips to meet. Back is arched and he pushes you further down into the cushions, if that's even possible.

"You're no saint sweetheart," his hips stuttering, "you fucking love getting fucked dirty by a criminal." He rasps, tugging you up by your arms, whispers close to your ear sending a shiver down your spine. "Tell me how much you love it," he instructs. "Go on."

"I love it." You breathe out. Suna forcefully pushes you back down onto the couch, harshly pounding into you, "Fuck, so good."

"No one's ever gonna fuck you as good as I will. I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to corrupt you, I'll protect you." His voice falters at the feeling of you tightening around him, his cock twitching in response. "Fuck, you're mine. Mine only, and I'll fucking kill anyone who comes near you."

You listen to him, losing all sense of strength in your body. You're so close, he knows you are. "Rin, please keep going, I'm so close." You whimper, and he endures, picking up his pace and pushing into you faster, deeper, and harder until you become a limp mess, tightening around him, giving him the greenlight to release.

He cums inside you, white liquid filling you and dripping out as he pulls out. Your hips fall to the couch, as you flip over in time for him to collapse on top of you. If you didn't need a new couch before, you definitely need one now. His arms wrap under your body, he lays between your legs, head resting on your rising and falling chest, hearing your heartbeat in his ears. You brush your fingers through his hair.

He meant what he said. You're his, and he will fucking kill anyone who comes near you. 

[papurgaatika]

Knead Me, Need You

Pairing: Massage Therapist! Joel Miller x F! Reader

Summary: you were overworked, overstressed, and long overdue to get a massage. You just didn’t realize that getting one would come with a very good-looking massage therapist or the thoughts that filled your mind every time he touched you Tags: no outbreak AU, massage therapist! Joel, no reader desc. Gentle Joel, dirty thoughts, Joel is a tease, the reader is pent up as HELL, mentions of fingering, no actual sex, LOTS of sexual tension, pet names (darlin’ and sweetheart are used), Appreciation for Joel's arms, 18+ Word count: 2.7k

A/N: I very desperately need to get a massage and woke up from a dream about it so there’s that!! Also a huge lovely shoutout and thank you to my wonderful beta readers (@joelsdagger @carlynkurin and my lovely Laur) who have saved me from making the weirdest grammar mistakes and also fuel me with comments such as “IM (S)CREAMING” yall are real ones xoxo

Remember that TLOU is created by a zionist so please look at the resources at the end of this fic and in my bio on ways to donate and educate yourself!! 🇵🇸

You hate your job. Okay, that wasn’t true. You don't hate your job, you just hate the commute. And sitting at your desk all day. And the fact that you always decide that heels look better with your outfits. So you didn't really hate your job, you loved being in charge, but your back was paying the price for it. Everyone in your life has heard you complain about your back hurting at least once. Some of your coworkers had found you with a stash of the stick-on heating patches in your desk and that led to the office pitching in to get you a certificate to one of the nicest spas in the area for your birthday. 

You weren’t sure if you would use it, you barely had time to sit down and fully wash your face. How were you supposed to relax for a full hour and a half with some stranger touching you? The answer came to you one Saturday when you rolled out of bed and could barely stand because of a crick in your lower back. A groan falls from your lips before you throw yourself back onto your bed and grab your phone, making quick work of dialing the number on the back of the voucher. You let out a sigh of relief when the receptionist tells you they have availability later in the afternoon, and you tell her you’d take the appointment. You’re just about to hang up before her voice comes through your speaker again “Oh, and just to let you know, your therapist will be male, is that okay?” 

You freeze for a second. On one hand, you didn’t love the idea of some random man touching you, especially considering it was a full-body massage. But on the other hand, you really didn't have a choice, your back was going to give out if you waited any longer. You mumbled out a quick “That’s fine, thank you!” before hanging up and making your way up to change your clothes. You decide to opt for something more casual, before grabbing your keys and wallet and heading out of the house. 

This place was fancy. Like much fancier than you had expected and suddenly your outfit felt too casual and you missed your heels. You chewed on the inside of your cheek as you filled out the forms they gave you. No, you haven’t had a massage before, yes you wanted to focus specifically on your back, and you weren’t sure how much pressure you wanted. You hand the clipboard back to the receptionist with a smile and she lets you know that he’s just about finished with his last client and he’ll come back for you in just a few minutes. Your knee is bouncing of its own accord, nerves finally kicking in. You are about to be naked in front of a man who is then going to rub his hands into you. Taking a deep breath, you remind yourself that it’s his job. He does this all day, five days a week. You keep reminding yourself that it’s just a massage, you’ll be okay. You finally start to believe that, nerves dissipating and your heart settling back to its resting rate, and then you see him. 

He’s all broad shoulders and a kind smile walking out to the main area, before turning in your direction, and your mind blanks for a minute to fully take in how attractive this man is. His arms were gorgeous and you couldn’t take your eyes off of them. His t-shirt was pulled tightly over his bicep, riding up just enough to let you see a peek of skin that was untouched from the Texas sun. His arms were thick, the muscles defined and prominent, veins standing out against the smooth skin. You were enraptured watching his arms move as he signed off on some papers and grabbed the clipboard with your forms on it. Images of his thick fingers in unspeakable positions flooded your mind; tugging at your hair while his other hand was on your hip, dragging over your lips and pushing them into your mouth, letting them curl into your aching cunt while he holds you down. 

You were lost in your thoughts until his voice was saying your name and pulling you out of your depravity. You smile at him shyly and stand up to shake his hand “I’m Joel, and I'll be your masseuse for today, it’s a pleasure to meet you darlin’.” if you thought that he was attractive before, hearing that accent made you weak in the knees. The slow drawl of his words was smooth like honey and sent butterflies straight to your core. He takes the paperwork from the receptionist and gives it a quick scan before tutting at you lightly. “Overworkin’ yourself? Don’t worry, I'll take good care of you today.” You feel your face start to heat up as you follow him back through the halls into his room. You stepped inside to be met with a dim warm light, and soft music playing through a speaker. 

“So is this your first time coming in for a massage?” he asks, half leaning against the door. 

“Is it that obvious?” you half laugh, heat rising in the back of your neck. You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes locked on his. He laughed softly with a shake of his head and you think you might die on the spot. It’s so unfortunate that he’s so hot. 

“No, darlin’ it said it on one of those forms they had you fill out, I just wanted to go over how it all works with you.” you nod and look up at the man, waiting for him to go on, “I know it said you wanted to focus on your back, do you mind goin’ a little bit into why?” 

You sigh and press a hand into your lower back, “So I sit at work a lot, and granted my posture isn’t great, but I woke up this morning and it was worse than it had ever been” You tell him about your job, about being overworked, about your stupid half hour commute. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, only dropping to flick over your waist for a moment, and then back onto yours. 

He lets you explain where exactly you were hurting before he glances at his watch and lets you know that you should get started sooner rather than later. “Just go ahead and get dressed down to your comfort level and then just lay down with your face in the cradle sweetheart. I’ll knock before coming back in and then we can get started.” You smile and give him a nod, taking a deep breath once the door shuts after him. You make haste to strip down and fold your clothes leaving them in a little pile on a shelf, leaving your panties on much too aware of the wetness that was pooling into them. You grab your phone and lay down on the table, scrolling through your email and replying to a few new ones from your coworkers, knowing fully well that they can barely get things done without you. 

A knock on the door breaks you out of your thoughts and you let out a small noise of acknowledgment that you were ready, slightly hesitant. You watch as Joel opens the door and steps in, eyes immediately flicking to your phone. “Can’t have that out darlin’, this is your time to relax” he says gently, grabbing your phone and setting it down on the shelf next to your clothes. “I’m sure work can wait.'' He shoots you a wink and your face feels flushed. You let your face fall into the cradle, eyes shutting before you feel his hands grazing your body over the sheet slowly. He’s barely touching you, his touch is feather-light, so why do you feel like your body is on fire? His fingers make small circles on your scalp as his thumbs press gently into the base of your neck. Your eyelids flutter softly, the pressure he was applying immediately melting away your stress. His fingers work on your neck, not pressing too hard but not so soft that it wouldn’t help at all. You feel him work in the same place for a few minutes to get rid of a knot, likely from staring down at your phone or hunching over your computer all day, before he takes his hands away. 

“Alright sweetheart I'm gonna move the sheet and start on your back, if that’s alright,” you nod into the face rest, letting out a deep breath when his hands hit your skin. You figured his hands would be as strong as the rest of him looks but he was surprisingly gentle and warm. The smell of roses and sandalwood fills your nose as his hands press softly between your shoulder blades. You let out a soft sigh when his fingers dig into your skin “That pressure alright darlin’?”

You manage to mumble out a weak “yes” and let your eyes fall shut again. You don't know why he’s doing this to you, why this man is making you all hot and bothered while he just does his job, but he is. His hands feel like heaven on your lower back, fingers creating circles to try and get a particularly nasty knot out right above your tailbone. A sound leaves your mouth, a little too close to a whimper for your liking and you feel the blood rush to your face but Joel doesn’t even mention it. 

“You're real tense sweetheart, it’s a wonder you didn't have to come in before today” he mutters as his fingers work their way back up your spine. A trail of goosebumps follows after his touch as your back almost arches into his hands. Almost. You catch yourself at the last moment, sparing yourself from what would be the most embarrassing experience of your life and would also likely get you banned from the spa, which would truly be painful because lord, did Joel know how to use his hands on you. His fingers were soft yet somehow held just the right amount of strength in them to work your pain away, the way the heels of his palms would dig into your skin when he focused on a specific area, he was just too good at this and it was making you a little bit crazy. 

Your eyes were still shut, your body more relaxed than it had ever been when you heard him tell you to flip over so he could work on your legs. In your half-asleep state, you seem to have forgotten that moving too fast will not only make your head spin but will also make the sheet covering you drop. You managed to catch it and pull it over your chest, eyes wide and staring at him. “Oh my god I'm so sorry-” you start but he cuts you off with a shake of his head before clearing his throat. 

“‘s alright sweetheart” his eyes flick down to where you were clutching the sheet. Your breasts were spilling out of the top almost obscenely, a small sheen of sweat from the warmth of the table (and his hands) covering your skin. “Just lay back down, ‘m gonna work on those legs now.” He turns to grab the oil again, and you weren’t certain because of the dim lighting in the room, but you could have sworn there was a light blush dusting his cheeks. You lay down with your head in the rest, still clutching the sheet at your chest before he takes it out of your hands and brings it over your chest fully, leaving just your collarbone and neck exposed. He moves to a corner before picking up a bolster to put under your knees to prop them up slightly. 

You let your eyes fall shut as you feel his hands skim your calf. You bite back a gasp when his hands, god his hands are huge, encompass your ankle and bring it up out of the sheet, bending it at your knee slightly. You wet your lips with your tongue and find your mouth drier than it had ever been as he moves your leg into a good position for him, your calf almost grazing his chest. You feel yourself clench around nothing and feel your panties dampen at the closeness of him. He lets your foot down, tucking the sheet under your hip so that it doesn't slip out from under you, and you can feel your heartbeat everywhere. His fingers were so strong yet so gentle on your calf, rubbing out the tightness in your legs.  As his fingers made their way further up your leg you felt like you were on fire. His hands were pressing into the muscles, nails softly tracing against your inner thigh and it made you feel weak. You couldn’t get the image of those same fingers the ones that were trying to help you relax, rubbing circles over your clit or digging into your hips as he held you in place, out of your mind. It was filthy really, how pent-up you were. How depraved the thoughts you were having about this man, this stranger, were, but you couldn’t help the wetness pooling between your legs from growing.  He presses into a specifically sore spot, dragging something between a yelp and moan from your lips. “I'm so sorry-” your words were quiet, barely audible over the light music he had playing in the room. “Don't worry about it sweetheart, just means I’m doing my job right” he was fucking with you. He had to know what he was doing to you. Had to know that while he was working on the muscles of your legs, you wanted those strong fingers inside of you, talking you through orgasm after orgasm with that sweet southern voice. 

You close your eyes again, trying to stabilize your heart rate and keep it from pounding out of your chest “Alright sweetheart, I'm gonna wipe you off and then I’m sorry to say, but we are done for the session” You nod your head before feeling the warmth of a hot towel wipe against your legs, attempting to brush the idea of him wiping you up after pumping you full of his cum out of your mind. You take a few deep breaths before he turns the lights up slowly, letting you adjust to the change. “Alright, I'm gonna step out and grab you some water. I’ll meet you up by the front darlin’” You smile at him and say thank you before moving to change into your clothes, knees slightly wobbly from just thinking about him. Your panties are embarrassingly wet when you stand up, and you press your face into your hands trying to shake this out of your system.

You manage to step out of the room without having your knees give out,  eyes still slightly blurry from being half asleep through the whole appointment, and walk back out to the reception. You blink a few times, adjusting to the much brighter lighting, and see Joel waiting for you with a cup of water. “Pleasure working on ya sweetheart, I hope I’ll see you again soon” You take the water and say your thank you to him before watching him walk back into the backroom, and oh my god was his butt always that cute? 

You turn back to the receptionist with a smile, when she asks how the session went. “Good, yeah no everything was amazing” You bite on the inside of your cheek softly, the ghost of his fingers still on your skin. You get checked out, making sure to give him a hell of a tip and book another session with him in a few weeks. You take his card and twirl it around your fingers as you sit in your car. Joel Miller- Licensed Massage Therapist- Austin, TX. It was going to be a long hard few weeks without seeing him, but you had some ideas on how to keep yourself, and that dull ache in the pit of your stomach occupied, and every single one of them included thinking about Joel Miller and his fingers. 

A/N: From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free READ: This account stands with Palestine unequivocally, and so— I require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE; 1, HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. silence is complicity, do not scroll past this. DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist. PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS.  Thank you for reading, and free Palestine

[whumpshaped]

Whumpee going into a toy shop and being turned into a doll by the sinister proprietor!

-- @oliversrarebooks

tw doll whump, magic whump, kidnapping, captivity, multiple whumpees, noncon drugging, dehumanisation, lady whump

“Your dolls are beautiful,” Whumpee said in complete awe, trying to take in the entirety of the shop at once. “They’re so… realistic. They’re gorgeous.”

The shopkeeper smiled and stood up from their chair, placing their current sewing project on the desk before circling around to stand beside Whumpee. “Thank you. I can give you a little tour, if you like. Or you can just point at any doll and ask whatever you wish to know about them.”

Whumpee’s face lit up. “Oh, I have so many questions. Are you sure it’s okay? I’m pretty sure I don’t have the funds to buy such fine art…”

“It’s a slow day,” they said pleasantly. “Every day is slow when you sell dolls, honestly. Especially ones like these. People are either scared to approach them, or don’t even want to come in if they can’t purchase anything. I rarely get to ramble.”

“It’s a crime, really. There must be so much to say about them.” Whumpee walked over to one close to their own size, staring into its brutally realistic eyes. It felt like they had life behind them. “How did you come up with the idea?”

“I’ve always liked dolls. It was only natural that eventually, I would figure out a way to make them. And here I am.”

“How long does it take to make a doll like this?”

“Oh, months, dearest.”

Whumpee nodded, not surprised in the least. The doll was a real work of art — all of them were. “And you make them all on your own?”

“For the most part, yes. But the dolls themselves do the heavy-lifting. They have so much personality… All I have to do is accentuate it.”

Whumpee looked at the tag that had been adorably tied to the doll’s hairband, reading the name and the price off of it. They could never even dream of purchasing something like this. “Belladonna…”

“I just call her Bella,” the shopkeeper said with the sort of fondness in their voice that made Whumpee feel like the doll had been created a long time ago, sitting in the store without any potential buyers for a while now. “I made her five years ago, I believe. One of my first dolls.”

“Five years… It looks– well, new. I would’ve never guessed.”

“Yes, dear Bella holds up very well under my care.” They stepped up to the doll and ran their fingers through its long, silky hair affectionately, fixing some frizz in the process. “Patiently awaiting her knight in shining armour. Isn’t that right, sweet?”

The doll was so realistic, Whumpee half-expected it to respond; it didn’t, of course. That might’ve put Whumpee off doll-shopping too. “I’m sure the knight is on their way,” they said warmly.

-

“Good afternoon!” Whumpee said with a wide grin as they walked into the shop, breathing in the scent of flowers and beeswax.

“Good afternoon.” Whumper had the usual serene smile on their face, and a half-finished garment in their hands.

“Has there been a purchase?” they asked, looking around. “It feels so empty for some reason. Someone’s missing.”

“Oleander, but she’s merely in the backroom.”

Over the past few weeks, Whumpee had gotten used to all the dolls being named after flowers and plants; poisonous ones at that. When asked, Whumper simply said they liked the ring of them, and well, they were their dolls, after all. They could name them whatever they wanted.

“How come?” They walked up to the desk and started poking around in the bowl of decorative candy, picking out their favourite flavour and popping it into their mouth. “Did something happen?”

“Her hair wasn’t doing very well in this humid weather. She needed a more controlled environment.”

Whumpee nodded, eyes glued to the fabric in Whumper’s lap. “That’s a very pretty purple. Very… royal, I guess. Noble.”

The shopkeeper glanced up at them, noting the candy in their mouth with a soft smile. “Yes, we could say that. It feels expensive, too.” They chuckled. “And it was. But only the best for my dolls.”

“Can I touch it?”

“Be my guest.”

Whumpee walked around the desk and gently ran the back of their hand over the fabric, humming in agreement. “It does feel very luxurious. Is it for a new doll?”

“It is, actually. I have been working on the doll themself for a few weeks now, and I think they’ll turn out to be quite spectacular. I wanted a dress to match that.”

“Do you have a name in mind, yet?”

“Lantana, I think. Tana. Or maybe Hydrangea,” they mused. “Angie.”

“Tough choice.” Whumpee wandered out into the open area again, checking on the dolls one by one. They had almost become friends in this short time. “I think I like Lantana better, personally. It sounds softer.”

-

“Oh, I could never,” Whumpee said quietly, voice filled with adoration and want. The dress had turned out absolutely breathtaking, and Whumper wanted them to try it on? The offer was beyond tempting, but what if they ruined it? What if they tore it by accident? It was made for a doll, there was no way they would fit into it.

Though they had become quite frail recently. They were pretty sure they’d become sick with something, but the doctors could never tell them anything. Whumper was the only person willing to take them seriously, always offering healing herbal teas and candies from their own personal stash. A kindness Whumpee didn’t feel like they deserved.

Whumper gave them a reassuring smile. “I would love to see it on you. Please.”

Whumpee had no idea why they nodded so easily. Why they just went along with whatever Whumper wanted by this point. Why their wants always seemed to align so perfectly. “O-okay.”

“It’s going to be alright.”

The dress was dazzling: hours and hours of work, all by hand, frill and lace and flowers adorning every inch of it — and they were about to try it on.

They were playing with the piece of candy in their mouth, nervously pushing it from one side to the other with their tongue. It didn’t help with the fuzzy feeling in their head, but at least it seemed to soothe their worries, just like the teas and the scented candles around the shop.

Whumper gently helped them get dressed in the backroom, and despite all of Whumpee’s worries about the size, the dress fit them perfectly. It was as if it had been made specifically for them.

“Wow,” they breathed, barely believing the mirror in front of them. “I look…”

“Beautiful,” Whumper whispered, their expression full of fondness and warmth.

“Like a doll,” Whumpee added with a small smile. The flowery scent was so strong in this room, it almost made them want to close their eyes and drift off. “Though… I think I should take it off. I feel a little dizzy. I can’t imagine what it’d do to the dress if I were to fall.”

“Of course.” Whumper carefully helped them out of it, skilled fingers quickly untying the bows that held it all in place. “You can sit down behind the desk outside.”

-

Whumper turned the key in the lock, opening their shop for the day. They hung their coat and turned the lights on, illuminating the faces of all their precious dolls, sitting and standing in all different positions, just as they’d left them the day before.

“Beautiful weather today,” they said casually. “People will be out walking, for sure. Hopefully, some of them decide to visit.”

They checked on the dolls one by one, gently fixing their dresses and brushing their hair. They were humming as they worked, filling the air with magic soft as silk, wrapping around their beloveds’ minds like a comforting blanket. It was impossible to escape; the sedative scent of the candles, the taste of candy infused with traces of poisonous plants, the alluring tune of their song.

All of them had been caught as soon as they entered the shop and expressed interest. It was only a matter of time before their inevitable demise.

Once the soul left their bodies, it was easy to trap the delicate thing and tuck it away into a little jar, just until Whumper was ready to put it right back in its place. Making sure the fragile human body was prepared to withstand an eternity in the condition they’d received it in was a finicky process, but one Whumper found greatly satisfying.

They walked into the backroom to check the state of their newest acquisition, noting with a pleased smile that the body was finally ready. They took the glass bottle with Whumpee’s matching soul in it, uncorking it and raising it to their doll’s lips to allow it slip back inside.

Whumpee’s glassy eyes were suddenly filled with life, confusion and fear taking the place of the blank, corpse-like stare. Only for a moment, though. Only until Whumper ran their fingers through their hair, gently shushing them.

“The dress really does look gorgeous on you,” they cooed. “I can’t wait to put you on display, so everyone else can admire you too.”

-

The soft chime of the bell above the door signalled the new customer’s arrival, and Whumper greeted them with a smile. They seemed entirely mesmerised by the doll collection, asking all manner of questions after Whumper assured them it was fine to do so.

The stranger spent a few moments looking at the tag that had been adorably tied to one of the dolls’ hairbands, reading the name out loud. “Lantana…”

“I just call them Tana,” they said fondly. “They’re the latest addition to the family.”

[magpie-writes]

Catching Snowflakes

Part One

Rating: Explicit (18+ ONLY)

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female!Reader

Wordcount: 1.6k

Summary: Din and his latest bounty crash land on an ice planet. Can you trust each other enough to survive?

Tags: Enemies to lovers. This chapter is pretty tame but things will, ahem, heat up soon. Pre-Grogu.

Author’s Note: Unbetaed, but thank you to @acrossthesestars for gently bullying me into getting back on the writing horse. Thank you also to @radiowallet for her advice about all things fic. I love you both lots.

“Is this what you meant by bringing me in cold? Because I gotta say, there must be an easier way.”

The Mandalorian kneeling beside you in the snow responds with an irritated grunt - which is more of a response than you’ve gotten in the hours since the two of you crash landed on this icy planet. You feel a surge of triumph at getting that much of a win although, with your hands in binders, you know it’s nothing more than a hollow victory.

Still, if all you can do is needle him with your words, jabbing in between the unprotected places in his armor like the stinging sleet currently sliding down the back of your neck, you’ll take it.

Neither of you are dressed for this. Standing in the grey leggings, lavender tunic, and thin woolen coat he’d tracked you down in, you’re halfway to frostbitten already. Still, smug satisfaction curls in your belly as you take in the ice riming the bounty hunter’s normally shining beskar. Opaque white crackles over the plates of his armor like frost on a windowpane, its crystalline branches spreading further and further the longer he crouches beside the open panel of his Razor Crest. One of the engines blew hours after he captured you, forcing the ship into a tailspin he’d only just managed to pull out of before making a heavy landing into powdery drifts of snow seemingly as tall as he is.

He’s spent the time since then swearing under his breath and wrestling with various tools, neither of which has accomplished more than getting a few lights to blink on and off, and delaying the inevitable - him handing you over to the people who hired him, collecting the bounty on your head, and leaving you to your fate.

A shiver that has nothing to do with the weather runs through you at the thought.

“Dank ferrik!” The Mandalorian throws a wrench into a nearby drift and rises to his feet to, you can only assume, glare down at the offending mechanism.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Is this going to delay you collecting your reward money? That’s such a pity for you.”

The black void of his visor turns to you and it takes every stubborn bone in your body not to quail beneath that flat, empty stare. You lean against the ship instead, a look of mock sympathy on your face.

“Why don’t you wait in the ship?” The hunter extends an arm towards the still-open hatch in exaggerated “invitation,” his deep voice tight with impatience.

“And miss all the fun?” Your eyebrows shoot to your hairline, all innocence. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

-

Luckily for your extremities, the Mandalorian manages to wrestle some systems online not too much later. The Crest remains grounded, navigation and comms are still down, and he doesn’t seem optimistic about the weapons system, but the atmospherics flicker back to life, filling the Crest with light and welcome heat.

For a little while, at least.

Before you’ve even finished thawing your chilled fingers over a vent, your captor powers the ship down until all that’s left are a few low lights and the barest whisper of heat. When you shoot a look at him, he shrugs one metal-clad shoulder.

“Need to conserve power.”

Raising your manacled hands, the steel as frigid as the air outside, you demand “Think you’ll still get full price if I’m missing pieces?”

You try to force down the thought that he probably would.

He shuffles his feet for a moment, uncertain, then pulls something out of a nearby crate with a sigh.

“Come here.”

You scoff and take a step backward, your hands raised in defiance. “If you think I’m getting any closer to you than I have to, you soulless, money-grubbing -“

The Mandalorian catches your hands in his gloved ones, his grasp firm but not painfully so, and shoves something smooth and metallic against your palm, making you gasp.

It’s warm.

Your fury temporarily forgotten, you almost groan at the relief as heat radiates to the tips of your fingers. You cup your hands around the polished metal blazing like a tiny sun between your skin and his gloves.

“A hand warmer?” You look up to find the Mandalorian studying your expression, his helmeted head tilted to one side, before nodding once.

“Why didn’t you get one sooner?”

“I just have the one.”

As the heat spreads between you, the ice on his gloves begins to melt, the moisture rising into the cold air as steam. If you were anywhere else, with anyone else, you’d make some flirtatious joke about it. Surprised as you still are by the kindness of his gesture, that humor surfaces despite your better instincts, and a wry smile tugs at your lips.

“Do you hold hands with all your bounties, or just the half-frozen ones?”

The Mandalorian drops your hands like he’s been burned. Only your lightning quick reflexes save the handwarmer from dropping to the floor and, caught off guard, you attempt to hand it back to him.

“Keep it.” He nearly stumbles over a crate in his rush to put more distance between you. “I’m uh, gonna go work on the ship some more.”

Before you can think of a response, he turns and walks back into the howling wind. Alone.

-

Hours later, you toss and turn on the bunk you found while exploring the confines of the ship. It’s surprisingly comfortable, if small, the mattress thin but serviceable, and the blankets thick enough to wrap yourself in. They’re cleaner than you’d worried they’d be, carrying only a faint hint of what you guess must be the Mandalorian’s scent. Worn leather, softened by what you suspect may be beeswax. The tang of metal and burn of carbon. And something subtler. Warm, almost spiced. There’s something oddly comforting about it - or would be, if it didn’t remind you of the man who was hauling you to a grisly fate.

With a sigh, you flip yourself onto your back and stare up into the darkness. Where *is* that man, anyway? If he dies out in the cold, there’s no guarantee you’ll be better off. Not with the comms down and the ship grounded. You could take your chances that there might be a settlement nearby, but you hadn’t caught any glimpses of one as the Crest was plummeting to the planet’s surface. Besides, with no winter weather gear, your odds of making it any distance before collapsing are… not great.

You’re up and moving before consciously arriving at a decision.

-

The wintry night air whips around you, lashing the warmth from the blanket clutched around your shoulders before you can brace for its icy onslaught. It’s shockingly, brutally cold. Killing cold. Your teeth are chattering by the time you make it to the Mandalorian’s side.

Snow has drifted against his broad form and icicles cling to the cowl around his neck. He’s not moving and for a moment, you wonder if he actually has frozen to death out here by himself.

Somehow, the possibility doesn’t cheer you the way you thought it would.

“Mando?”

Reaching out, you shake his shoulder hard enough to send snow tumbling down his back, nearly jumping out of your skin when he turns to look at you.

“Maker, don’t scare me like that. What are you doing out here?”

“What do you t-think?” Despite his obvious sarcasm, the Mandalorian’s voice is dull, oddly flat. “Trying to f-fix the engine.”

He tries to rise but wavers on his feet. Instinctively, you reach out, taking his weight when his numbed feet stumble. His Beskar armor is freezing to the touch. You can only imagine how cold he must be beneath all that frozen steel.

“Come on,” you urge, slipping an arm around his waist and encouraging him to lean on you as you make your way back into the moderately warmer ship. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

“You sure you wouldn’t rather leave me to f-fend for myself in the snow? Can’t say I’d b-blame you.”

You cut a glance at the bounty hunter, not sure if he’s joking.

“Oh, I considered it,” you admit breezily as you close the door behind him. Without the furious howling of the wind, the dimly lit ship falls into a hushed silence, quiet enough for you to hear the Mandalorian’s sharp bark of a laugh.

“What changed your mind?”

You shrug, not entirely sure yourself.

He stands and stares at you for a long, long moment before nodding once, murmuring a quiet thank you, and settling onto a nearby crate.

“Wait, Mando, are you going to sleep out here? In your armor?”

“That’s the plan.” He sounds tired, resigned.

“There’s not another bunk? Or…” You’re about to offer to switch places with him but stop, remembering that you’re his captive. His bounty. Why should you care where he sleeps?

“Suit yourself. Just don’t come crying to me when all your joints rust.”

“I’m not a droid.”

For the first time, there’s heat in his voice. It’s enough to make you turn, to glare at him and demand “No? Because you’re heartless enough for one. Tell me something, Mando. Do you even know what they’ll do to me? The people that hired you to bring me down? Or why they put a bounty on me in the first place?”

There’s a long, tense moment and then, “I didn’t ask.”

“Oh? And why not?”

“I never do.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t you think you should start?”

Without waiting for an answer, you turn your back and make for the small cabin. Alone.

It’s only later, when you’re on the blurred edge of sleep, that a question of your own occurs to you: what sort of bounty hunter gives up his own bed for a captive?

[ayvi]

Note:how would the characters behave if they fell in love with you (Dazai, Chuya, Akutagawa, Atsushi, Fedor)

Dazai Osamu

Dazai is the type of guy who won't hide that he's in love with you. And yet there are a couple of differences. Dazaya to you from other girls. The very first thing is that he does not offer you to commit double suicide, because in you he saw the meaning of life for which he wants to continue living. But 1000 and 1 complement are provided for you every day. Osamu is very eloquent, so you've only heard such beautiful words about yourself in romance novels. And of course who became your new partner? Naturally Dazai! At first, no one wanted to put him as a partner with you, "They say the girl will now start to roll up and offer double suicide again," but the brown-haired man is smarter and knew that everyone would have such doubts. So he arranged everything so that everyone could see that next to you he is completely immersed in work and does not shirk. He even left suicide attempts.Having become your permanent partner, he gradually began to get closer to you and drive away, of course, cute guys. And even if you asked about "is he jealous of you?" Dazai will answer honestly that yes, he is really jealous because he loves.

Chuya Nakahara Chuya, unlike his former partner, cannot immediately declare that he is in love with you. For him it is…difficult. And then Someone comes to help him, who helps the red-haired mafia in love affairs. Eloquence at Nakahara is worse than Osamu. Well, it doesn't work out for him to compose such beautiful words that could win the heart of any girl. But Chuya will not stint on gifts. Everything is best only for you alone, and the price tag does not matter. And probably every girl dreams of riding around the night city on a motorcycle with a handsome guy cuddling up to him. Well, being his assistant (not without the help of Someone), you are constantly with him and he has a chance to get to know you better and expose himself in all his glory. The main thing Not to meet Dazai, otherwise his plan will be doomed to complete failure…

Atsushi Nakajima

Yes, the poor boy has a hard time. Atsushi doesn't have the eloquence of Dazai, a lot of money like Chuya, and his embarrassment also plays a role. And his colleagues come to his aid, who see the suffering of the guy and decide to help him. Although I caught myself most of all Naomi, who is just a master in love affairs, and she is only happy to know that she will bring you to Nakajima. So romantic walks, modest and inexpensive gifts and compliments with a stutter and a huge blush on your cheeks will definitely be provided for you. Well, as a consequence, the tiger is also your partner and this is not only for the sake of being closer to you, but also to protect you. The poor kitten's heart is torn by the mere thought that you have been hurt. But it would be better for you to admit it, otherwise Atsushi will delay it for a month, or even a year. Because he's afraid you'll reject him.

Akutagawa Ryunoske

It is very difficult with this guy, because at first he completely denies the fact that he is in love with you and tries to drive away thoughts about you. He will even try to contact you as little as possible, you see, this love will pass and everything will return to its course. However, if this does not help, then he will have to come to terms with this fact, no matter how much he does not want it. And yet it does not make the task easier, because Ryunosuke is far from a romantic person and even has no idea how to take care of a girl. Plus, his reputation in the mafia and throughout the city will also play a significant role. Fortunately, his sister comes to the rescue, who began to explain to him what to do. However, the guy refused compliments and gifts. Either his pride or his reputation does not allow him. However, the owner of the black cloak has become your number 1 protector. On any task, you are always with him and do not move away from him, and you are not allowed to participate in a fight with a couple at all. Well, the guy accompanies you home, hiding behind the fact that it's late and such a "weakling" as you can find adventures for one place.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

In order for a guy to understand what kind of feeling was born in him, it takes some time, because before you, Fedor did not experience such feelings as love, infatuation or even sympathy. His whole life revolved around the creation of a sinless world. However, fate decided to interfere a little with his plans. And when Dostoevsky realizes and accepts his feelings, he begins to act. First, he needs to fully learn about you, because information about your favorite colors and other things will not be superfluous. And then the demon slowly begins to get closer to you. Then you will go to the misia together, then he offers to drink tea together to beautiful music. And at first glance, it's hard to tell if Fedor is in love with you or if it's just a sign of attention as a valuable employee. And yet, when they give you flowers and say very eloquent compliments, you can no longer say that they see you as a valuable and good employee. And this will continue for at least 2-3 weeks, and then the guy confesses his feelings to you. Unless you beat him to it, of course.

[missmeinyourbones]

I CAN SEE IT NOW (satoru gojo x reader)

tags: requested from my baby @hashiraromantica and their big brain <3 domestic!satoru paired with “mine” by taylor swift

Satoru doesn’t know how he ended up where he currently is. 

Sitting with you, on the barren and beaten down floors of an new and empty apartment—your new and empty apartment, to share, with him. He like’s how the thought of ours sits in the back of his mind, it probably feels even better being spoken aloud.

He remembers the giddy feeling he got when clearing out one of his dresser drawers for you to store some belongings in for nights you were too lazy to leave the warmth of his bed. A simple action, but it left him floating—the thought of sharing his space with you, you voluntarily wanting to be a part of something that was only his for so long. 

It doesn't feel real, but he’s humbly reminded that it is when your fingertips delicately dance across his scalp. 

“Can you believe it?” he beams, head on your lap as the two of you rest on an inflated air mattress—currently the only piece of furniture filling your tiny home.

“S’weird, isn’t it?” you agree, hands running through his hair as you struggle to bite back a smile at his excitement. 

“Yeah, a little, maybe,” Satoru ponders, closing his eyes at the feeling, “but in the best way possible.”

You hum a noise of understanding, letting the slight breeze from the open window litter goosebumps all over your arms. 

“I can’t believe it’s ours,” he dreamily murmurs, the word indeed tasting better than imagined on his tongue. “It’s so nice.”

His comment unintentionally makes you release a laugh—one of genuine disbelief and confusion as you absorb his words. Satoru, wealthy and powerful, honored and great, is in awe of your cluttered and (borderline) grimy little apartment? When he’s grown up surrounded by upscale clans, elegant mansions, and decor that costs more than your whole entire being—a tiny little space shared between the two of you is what does it for him? 

Your chuckled scoff is followed by silence, as your not sure what to respond to his comment with. Satoru lifts his head from your lap and furrows his brow, shooting you a glance filled with suspicion and confusion. 

As his stare continues to bore into you, you’re forced to explain yourself. 

“I mean I adore it and all,” you honestly drawl, “but, I’m sure you’ve had nicer things.”

Satoru bites his cheek as he lets out a hmph of agreement. His head returns to its home on your lap as he ponders the potential truth of your statement. Sure, he agrees, he has grown up with a lavish lifestyle—with every material item anyone could ever want practically at the tips of his fingers. He understands your point of view, why you think what you do. 

But this stuffy apartment, with both your and his name on the lease, has something that his childhood mansion and snotty family heirlooms could never dream of having—love. The special warmth of being wanted somewhere, making something your own to share with someone else. The gentle feeling of domesticity, where he can simply exist in your space and feel like it’s where he’s meant to be.

There’s no price on that kind of bond, no diamond or gold that could ever outweigh it’s worth.

Satoru’s eventual response is quiet and soft, like he’s exposing the most tender part of himself through enunciating each syllable. 

“Yeah, but, I didn’t want any of that,” he pines. 

His head slightly readjusts so he’s looking up at you, his eyes brighter than usual (as if that’s even physically possible). He looks strangely young—innocent in a way that’s new to you, like he’s never been held in a space to call his own before. 

“I want this,” he declares as his eyes crinkle when he grins a bit goofily, “with you.”

A delicate kiss is placed on his forehead in return for his baring. And while it’s nice, what he says next somehow manages to be ten times better. 

“You’re the best thing that’s ever been mine.” 

His confession is sweet—it almost makes you want to cradle him in your grasp forever and let him drink the tears of joy that are threatening to spill from your eyes. Almost, as he continues his sentence with a more Gojo-esque conclusion. 

“And like you said, I’ve had a lot of things, so you should be flattered—”

A tug on his hair interrupts his egotistical tease, and the instant comfort it brings him (paired with a snort from you) is truly sickening. 

He doesn’t know how he got here, what he did to deserve a blessing as sweet as this one, but he’ll take it without any questions. 

The two of you spend the rest of the night in your apartment, on your shitty air mattress that’s bound to half-deflate in the middle of the night. 

You have bills to pay, furniture to buy, and a life to create together—you've simultaneously got nothing and everything figured out all at once. And somehow, with Satoru’s breathing slowly evening out in your embrace, his eyelashes fluttering and full as he safely drifts off to sleep in your shared home, it’s enough. 

[bullfinch-lover]

A nightmare

Lily has a nightmare about the Master and mister Quinlan comforts her.

This is my first time writing anything about my The Strain self insert AU. English is not my first language so there might be some errors, but I hope you can enjoy reading this nonethless!

--------------------------------------------------

It was late in the night way past the midnight, and the full moon shone brightly from the windows, making every surface the light touched glow dimly blue. It was such a rare sight to see the Moon or the Sun from the clouds these days when the thick layers of clouds and ash buried everything beneath them. Quinlan was sitting on the ground and reading very keenly in the dim light of his lantern the most priced artefact, Occido Lumen, that his rag tag team of a resistance group had gotten into their posession and held all the secrets of the strigoi and how to defeat the Master once and for all. He had almost forgotten how much he loved the Moon and its faint blue light. To him the Moon was what the Sun was for humans. He could only tolerate the harsh, burning rays of the sunlight to an extent, but moonlight was fine for him. The Moon was the Sun of the strigoi. He was deep in his thoughts, reading the old pages full of small, squiggly letters written in beautiful cursive by the hand of a man nearly half a millenia ago, trying his very best to decode its meaning.

He was forced to snap out of his thoughts when he suddenly heard a silent whimper coming from the direction of the hallway in front of him. For a moment he heard nothing, but then the whimpering started again, followed by silent sounds of incoherent speech that sounded like pleading. It was clear to him that somebody was talking in their sleep and their sleep definitely wasn't peaceful. He felt sorry for the restless sleeper and decided that it would be for the best to wake them up from their troubled slumber. He shut the book and got up from his resting place and started walking towards the noice, his boots clacking on the ground as he walked in the hallway. In the middle of the hallway the sounds of incoherent speech and whimpering turned into helpless screams of terror and despair, and Quinlan quickened his pace into a run and went into the room where the noices were coming from. He slammed the door open and in the doorway he saw Lily laying on a dirty mattress, moving restlessly and screaming in her sleep. He quickly went to her side and took her by the shoulders and shook her gently, but firmly trying to shake her awake and save her from her dreams. It seemed to do the trick, because Lily jolted awake with a loud gasp, blinking rapidly and looking around with a completely bewildered face, until she realized Quinlan was there and let out a deep, relieved sigh and sunk into his arms. The relief didn't last long, because Quinlan could see how tears were beginning to run down her white cheeks and she started sobbing quietly. Lily curled into a ball and hugged her knees while sobbing. Instinctively Quinlan placed a hand on her back and began stroking it gently. The act reminded him slightly of how he had used to soothe his daughter, Sora, after she had had a bad dream and was crying. For a moment it was just silence, except for the sobs and the sniffles, but then Lily heard Quinlan's calm baritone voice in her head.

- "Are you alright? You were screaming quite loudly in your sleep."

Lily sniffled once and spoke

- "I saw the Master in my dreams and......I think he saw me too." She swallowed and then continued and Quinlan listened.

- "He demanded me to bring him Occido Lumen and to reveal our hiding place or he would make me watch as he kills every single person I've ever cared about in my life."

Then she broke down in tears, sobbing quietly in her hands while Quinlan continued to soothe her.

- "His voice sounded so horrible in my head, like the most loudest thunderstorm I've ever heard, breaking my eardrums and.....and....I was so afraid. Afraid that in my fear I would tell him everything."

- "It is alright. He is not here. He has no power over you and he cannot hurt you in this moment. Trust me." Quinlan stated calmly, wrapping his strong arms around Lily, bringing her head to rest against his chest while he gently stroked her hair.

Hearing him say that made Lily relax a bit more and she let out a tired yet relieved sigh, sinking more into Quinlan's embrace. Her crying had ceased for now leaving her sniffling her runny nose. Her cheeks were still wet and eyes red. She dried her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her pink hoodie and looked at Quinlan with her bright blue eyes trying to muster up a small smile. Then she pulled away from the hug looking away a bit embarrassed like she wanted something, but was too afraid to ask for it. After a moment she gathered up her courage and finally asked.

- "I don't think I'm going back to sleep again anytime soon. Quinlan.....um.....could you perhaps read me something? I know it sounds silly, but I think it would make me feel better" Then she raised her hands in front of her in a defensive gesture clearly not wanting to bother the man any more than necessary and added, "But of course only if you want to, I don't want to bother you."

A small, genuine smile curved into Quinlan's lips.

- "Of course I can read for you. What do you want me to read?" He asked, waiting for Lily's answer, but she had gone silent again, looking away, embarassed and avoidin Quinlan's gaze, fidgeting with her hands and pursing her lips.

- "I was hoping for that maybe you could read Occido Lumen for me, since I can't read it myself, because the whole thing is made of silver and it hurts me. But I understand completely if you don't want to do that. It's a sacred book afterall made for humans, not strigoi." She said looking down, ashmased of her own request.

For a moment Quinlan was silenty depating in his mind, his hand resting on his chin, whether or not he should read the book for her, but then he came to that conclusion that in a way Lily had the right to hear about the book, because afterall the book was made for the humans and she had been a human herself most of her life, before containing the disease and turning into a strigoi. Besides, she was far more human than the mindless slaves of the Master that were only mere shadows of humans they had once been, now having the body of a strigoi with no will of their own unlike her. Lily may be a strigoi, but her heart was still human's despite everything that has happened to her. Deep inside Quinlan had already decided that he would read the book for her if that would make her forget about the horrible nightmare she had seen about the Master. He placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke in her mind.

- "I can read the book for you. The book was made for the humans afterall, and despite everything that has happened to you, in my eyes you are still a human. So technically speaking, you have a right to hear about it"

Lily raised her head to look at him, first in confusion from the sudden agreement, but then her confusion turned into excitement and her face lit up into a wide smile showing her small, but sharp fangs.

- "Wait, really? Thank you so much for agreeing to read for me! I've been so curious about Occido Lumen this whole time and I can't wait to hear about its secrets! She said enthusiastically, flapping her hands.

Quinlan couldn't help, but grin at the short strigoi's radiant enthusiasm and her bright spirit.

- "Of course. What would you like me to read from Occido Lumen? Do you want to hear about the birth of the Ancients or perhaps the Master's tale?" He tilted his head to the side, ready to hear about the answer she would give to him.

- "Well, I would like to hear about those too, but I'd mostly want to hear about your kind, the half-strigoi, half-humans, the borns, if that's alright with you."

- "That is alright with me. Come, I left the book in the hallway, let's go read it there." He said while standing up and extending his hand for her to hold and after a moment of silence she nodded, accepting the born's gentlemanly gesture and Quinlan gently wrapped his clawed fingers around Lily's pale and delicate hand and together they walked in the hallway, their footsteps echoing in the walls, hand in hand

And so the two of them sat there side by side, Lily resting her head on Quinlan's shoulder while the moonlight illuminated their forms with its faint, blue light. They stayed there all night: Quinlan reading the magical book's silvery pages while Lily keenly listened his every word that echoed in her mind in that sweet baritone tune that was like music to her ears and heart. The horrors of the nightmare had vanished from her mind leaving only serenity and bliss afterwards.

[coralgreenroses]

this world is getting sicker day by day.

first of all, yall made people feel inhumane for having black skin. like it is the scum of earth. yall made hate speech for having black skin and even went as far to kill, and then, even justified the killings.

yall started mocking the human race. black skin. yellow skin. ching chong eyes. dirt color skin.

then yall started the religion war.

islamophobia.

yall made people hate on islam, saying they did 9/11 . if you have researched enough, your government lied to you. Still not convinced? read the testimonies of the people who served. blood money. blood money for the arab oil.

and human beings with half of IQ and EQ knows the duality of humans. Good Muslims exist, bad Muslims exist. Good Christians exist, bad Christians exist. Good Jews exist, bad Jews exist.

you cannot use the character of One black man as a decoy to put a label on the whole community. You don't bomb the entire school to take out the school shooter.

then, with the added bonus of hatred for certain skin color, race , religion, they justified to you how some humans are more equal than the others.

they made you think we are all bags of meat in a butcher shop, some has a bigger price tag than others, And some just dont deserve to live, they should be slaughtered.

don't you realise how ruthless that is?

then, they started to justify to you that, killing a 'certain group of people' is okay.

genocide is okay. killing innocent people is okay. shooting someone because they are black is okay. killing someone just because they disagree with you is okay.

and if you have been brainwashed to think like this, you still have hope left.

don't you think every single one whose "death" was justified had hopes and dreams like you? a hope of peace. a hope of life. a hope to have a family to hear the laughter of their children. why are we fighting for the right to live?

wake the fuck up.

its not too late to take a stand. everytime, a genocide occurs, somehow, the world manages to keep one eye and one ear shut. pray for them. raise your voice for them.

Today it is Palestine, Congo, Sudan, or anywhere else.

Tomorrow, it could be you.

and I pray. that none of those who deny others the right to exist, ever find themself in the same scenario.

and if you do, and if you beg for help, it is still us that will raise the voice for you.

[beautifulbows924]

I Never Knew Daylight Could Be So Violent (Sneak Peak)

Paring: Morpheus x Gender Neutral!Reader

Warnings: Heavy Angst, Spoilers, Magick, Blood.

Summary: Morpheus searches for a mage to insure what happened to him will never happen to you- But it seems that every choice has a price, and his decisions might just cost him everything.

A/N: I’m not certain on whether this is going to be a series or a oneshot yet, but I’m very excited to unveil the sneak peak! …If you’re interested in being tagged, let me know in the comments!

“You’re good at finding things”, you frown, licks of anger settling deep into the lines of your face, shadows twisting at every edge, “Find me a reason to stay”.

Dream clenches his jaw, stalking several large steps toward you, his movements sharp, deliberate. The once gentle light danced in his eyes has vanished. In its place—wrath, utterly pure and unholy, unveiling the nightmare beneath.

“There is no need, I will not keep you here any longer.”

The pain your expression reveals must be more than you’d intended as his eyes shift in conflict, appearing less severe—blurred by regret and guilt.

Morpheus swallows, jaw clicking in discomfort, “I simply wanted you to remain safe”. He sighs, lifting an uncertain hand to brush a stray tear from your cheek, “Forgive me”.

“Spare me your lies, my lord”, an indignant scoff escapes your lips as you shove his hand away, “You sought to bind me to the Dreaming out of nothing but your own selfishness”.

“No”, he argues, fighting to swallow down his rising anger, “I only knew you would be safest here, in my realm, where I could always sense you”.

Moving a step away, you wipe furiously at the tears falling from your eyes, “How could you? How could you aim to repeat what was done to you, to me?”, your voice breaks, “You’re no better than Roderick Burgess”.

Morpheus flinches as if you’d slapped him, pain and betrayal shadowing his features.

“I see”, the sliver of hope that remained has been drained from his words, “Very well, if that is your opinion of me. I will not try to convince you otherwise”.

Hard and unyielding, every inch the Lord of Dreams once more, “You are free to leave”.

Posted! I Never Knew Daylight Could Be So Violent

[mania-sama]

with every line, a comedy (01)

Chapters and Tags | Next ->

Fic Summary: The people of Sumeru had not experienced dreams for the past five hundred years. Lesser Lord Kusanali then abolished the Akasha system and returned the wonders dreaming to her people.

However, there are complications that arise with freeing the brain’s unconscious activities. Nightmares start to haunt those that had previously repressed traumatic memories in order to cope.

Kaveh, on the other hand, begins sleepwalking. Alhaitham tries to fix the problem before someone gets hurt.

Or; Kaveh has nightmares and sleepwalks. Alhaitham dreams and deals with the emotions he holds for his roommate.

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01 - i know that shape to your wicked smile

Where Is Your Rider - The Oh Hellos

wc: 3,449 | Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own

Author Note: okay before you jump into this fic, i need you to know that the first half of this fic was written BEFORE kaveh’s backstory came out. i was also 15k words in before mehrak even existed so it is not in this fic i’m sorry 😭😭

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The people of Sumeru did not dream.

For countless years, the Akasha had been feeding from the unconscious minds of all that wore its terminals. Of course, this had not been known by the people of Sumeru — all it had been to them, for all of their lives, was an earpiece that provided them instantaneous access to all they wanted to know. It had been nothing but free information for them.

Nothing was ever truly free. A price had to be paid, a debt to be owed. Unfortunately, the dues had come in the form of dreams. Their minds’ passive imaginations were snatched from under their noses, and they had been none the brighter.

Now, the Akasha was destroyed. The Akasha Terminals were no longer thieves, but now were useless earpieces that lay on the bedside of scholars and denizens alike.

The people of Sumeru had never dreamt. But on this night, the Scribe of the Akademiya and the light of Kshahrewar, along with the rest of the population, would dream.

Alhaitham, in all rights, should’ve experienced his first dream before everyone else. He’d known of the more shady aspects of the terminals before he’d truly begun his investigation on the Akademiya. He had been aware of the give and take of the Akasha, and that if he were to gain information via the terminals, he would have to give something up in return, consensually or otherwise.

He just hadn’t cared all that much.

He’d tampered with his Akasha Terminal during the investigation, but he’d never gotten rid of all the aspects of it. Mostly what he had done was make it harder for the Akasha to give information to him, and in turn make it harder for it to extract personal data. Alhaitham hadn’t been able to get rid of the dream aspect of it, though he hadn’t particularly cared to. Dreams had never been of interest to him.

Until now, of course. It had been the only subject Kaveh had talked about in their house. From the moment the architect had gotten home to the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut, Kaveh’s nonstop prattling had somewhat successfully piqued Alhaitham’s curiosity in dreams.

Sleep usually came with ease to Alhaitham. His body operated on a regular schedule with a spectacular internal clock; it only worked against him when he had to labor in the night. Kaveh liked to tease him about his so-called bedtime. Alhaitham knew he was better for it.

This night was no different. Despite anticipation creating a strange hum in his body, the familiar tug of drowsiness and exhaustion seemed to sink his body into the mattress all the same.

Nothing felt different. Perhaps he would not dream after all. 

His mind silenced and his body went limp. Alhaitham woke up in a library.

It was quiet. He could not hear his footsteps that should’ve echoed in the House of Daena, nor did he hear his clothes rustle as he walked. The book he placed on the second lowest shelf made no sound as it slid into place against the other books. Alhaitham frowned and checked his felt for his hearing aids, but they were resting soundly on his head and ears like any other day.

He stepped back from the wall of books, admiring the spines that were old and young, brown and gray, and filled with words that were flawed in a way that the Akasha could never be. That’s what made them worthwhile to Alhaitham. Flaws induced critical thinking.

Without warning or preamble, the House of Daena began to quiver underneath Alhaitham’s feet. He looked around wildly, but all of the faces and people around him were blurry and indistinguishable, and his evidently broken hearing aids prevented him from hearing anything they were possibly saying.

The scholars were milling around and reading, blissfully unaware of the House of Daena falling apart around them. Books tumbled from the shelves, landing ungracefully on the ground and tables. The pristine stone walls and bridges splintered and cracked. Dust and debris were already collected on the ground, and for the love of Kusanali, why was he the only one bothered by this?

He ducked as a piece of the ceiling nearly crushed him. Alhaitham cursed out loud, even though he couldn’t hear it. Sumeru didn’t get earthquakes — was the Akademiya being attacked? As the Scribe and Acting Grand Sage, he should’ve known about such a thing before it happened. And yet, there he was in the grand library, his precious books and records becoming nothing more than a heap of damaged pages on the ground.

Seeing no other way to save the House of Daena, the Scribe turned to make a run for it. But when he attempted to do so, he quickly noticed that all of the blurry people he had seen before were gone. In their place, and in the midst of all the chaos of the collapsing library, was a short girl with hair the color of shimmering snow.

Lesser Lord Kusanali glowed a beautiful hue of Dendro green, the purest form of the color. Her hair was tied up as usual, and her little cape billowed behind her. A piece of a crumbling pillar narrowly missed hitting her by only a few centimeters, yet she seemed completely unbothered. On the other end of the spectrum, it was taking everything in Alhaitham not to freak out.

Kusanali was in the warzone. He needed to get her out of there, and fast. But he was rooted to his spot in the House, unable to so much as lift a finger to save his Archon.

She did not speak to him. Rather, she raised her small hands and smiled pitifully at him. “Do not be afraid,” she signed, mouthing the words alongside her hand movements. “What you see before you is not real.”

His beating heart and sweating hands felt real enough. His sense of urgency and confusion were ever-present.

But the House of Daena was falling apart. One moment ago, there were scholars in the library. In the next, it was just him and Kusanali. He looked down at his clothes, noticing that they weren’t his usual choice of outfit, but rather his old student uniform.

Something was terribly wrong.

Her eyes softened at the edges. She was a rather expressive Archon, Alhaitham observed. “I would not normally do this. Waking you up now is like cutting the bud off of a flower before it can bloom. I am sorry to cut your journey short.”

A book flew between the two of them, slamming full-force into the mess of stone that was once the bridge in the House of Daena. It did not make a sound.

“But Kaveh is in danger, my Scribe,” she continued. “He is dreaming, just like you, but his mind and body have taken him elsewhere. I cannot help him effectively, but you can.”

Oh.

He must have been experiencing that new phenomenon called dreaming. The moment he realized that, the world became blurry. The House of Daena still fell apart as the unheard earthquake, or attack, or whatever his mind had convinced him it was, carried on with its raging assault. The only thing that was clear to him was his Archon. A tight frown and eyes full of concern were etched into her face like a sculpture.

Though she, too, quickly began to fade.

The young god signed carefully: “Wake up, Alhaitham.”

Alhaitham sat straight up in his bed. Darkness greeted him, along with a sudden head rush. Pressing his palms to his head to fight down dizziness, the Scribe first only recalled the fact that Lesser Lord Kusanali had just finger-spelled his name to him.

He had a dream, then. Alhaitham lifted his face from his hands as he remembered the rest of his conversation with the Archon, and then everything that came before. There was no time to process the strangeness of dreaming or the fact that he was already forgetting the majority of the details of his short dream. He reached for his hearing aids on the nightstand and left his room as fast as he could while still sleep-bogged.

His concern went as far as Kusanali’s did. His jittery nerves were from the fact that his Archon was worried enough to contact him in his very first dream. It went no further than that.

“Kaveh,” he called, his voice hoarse. He flipped up the light switch in the hallway outside his door, bright light flooring this portion of the house. Expectedly, he received no answer. Kaveh had always been a heavy sleeper. Yet his bedroom door was wide open.

Alhaitham shouted a little louder for his roommate, stepping inside his bedroom and turning on the lights. Kaveh’s bed was undone, but his ugly lion slippers were still by his bed. All of the personal items in the messy room were untouched, and one look in the bathroom confirmed that Kaveh wasn’t there, either.

The worry ebbing away at his beating heart was only Kusanali’s influence still lingering in his body.

When he stepped back out into the hallway, he noticed that it was cold. That was unusual, given the house normally ran warm if the front door hadn’t been left open for a long time, which they tended to do in the sweltering heat of summer.

Lesser Lord Kusanali’s sign came to his mind’s eye. Kaveh is in danger.

Alhaitham discerned that nothing was stolen or out of place as he grabbed his house key and jacket before leaving. None of the windows were broken, and the lock was secure and undamaged. The only thing that had been missing was his roommate; even his key, marked by the lion keychain, was hanging safely on the wall.

Kaveh must’ve left on his own violation. Kusanali said he was dreaming, but that she could not help him. That left only one feasible option, then: Kaveh was sleep-walking.

A student in the Rtawahist Darshan had a horrible case of it, though it tended to work in her favor rather than against it. Other than that, Alhaitham didn’t know much else about sleep-walking. Kaveh had never done such a thing before, so he hadn’t bothered to do any research on it. His previous studies as a Haravatat student had never remotely aligned with the topic, either.

The frigid night air hit his underdressed body like a horse. He shivered and put his hand to the ground, focusing on his Vision to pick apart the elemental traces in the surrounding area. If Kaveh hadn’t been gone for long, then his Dendro Vision should have left a trail.

Unless, of course, he’d been parted with his Vision somehow. Alhaitham shoved that thought aside and promised to revisit it later. It left him with a queasy feeling in his stomach.

After a minute of concentration, the Scribe was finally able to pull out the element he was looking for. The Dendro trail took a left down the bridge, the opposite direction of the Akademiya. If he had gone to the Akademiya, it would’ve been much easier to find him. But of course, in typical Kaveh fashion, he had to make things much harder for Alhaitham.

Sumeru City wasn’t a dangerous place at night, all nations considered. Generally speaking, the denizens were so sleep-deprived from working or being a student that they didn’t have time to get into many illegal activities. Tonight had to be the safest of all; everyone was eager to experience their first dream.

Kaveh had likely managed to get himself into danger without the help of criminals. Perhaps he sleep-walked into the middle of the river surrounding the city, or he was hanging from a branch at the top of the Divine Tree. The mental images would’ve nearly made Alhaitham laugh if it weren’t for the fact that he was the one that had to save his reckless roommate.

The trail brought Alhaitham half a mile into the city. Despite having his hearing aids in, Alhaitham couldn’t hear much outside of the cold wind that snapped at his jacket and hair. The streets were nearly devoid of the Matra and Corps of Thirty, and those that he did catch sight of ignored the Scribe as he passed by.

When Alhaitham finally, finally saw Kaveh’s blond hair in the distance, he quickened his pace and released his focus on the Dendro trail. His roommate was walking towards one of the many entrances to the Grand Bazaar within the Divine Tree. The Corps member that was usually stationed there was nowhere to be found.

Kaveh was completely barefoot and he was wearing a thin tank top, but at least he had fluffy pajama pants on. As Alhaitham drew closer, he called out the architect’s name. Kaveh ignored him. The Grand Bazaar’s door opened automatically to let the wandering man in.

“Can you hear me, Kaveh?” Alhaitham asked, reaching Kaveh’s side and falling in step with him. His eyes were open, but the gas lantern burning on the other side of the Grand Bazaar entrance showed that they were glazed over. Unseeing and not comprehending a single thing.

He reached out, carefully putting his hands on each of the architect’s bare shoulders. His skin was cold against Alhaitham’s fingers. This successfully stopped him from walking, but he did not wake.

Kusanali had said Kaveh was in danger. The Scribe sweeped the Grand Bazaar, but it was just as quiet and peaceful as the rest of the city. Though the night was bitter enough to cause their breaths to crystallize in the air, it wasn’t cold enough to the point of fearing frostbite. It was improbable for an Archon like her to lie to her own Acting Grand Sage. Where was the danger?

Alhaitham narrowed his eyes as Kaveh twitched in his sleep, mumbling incoherently. The architect’s face scrunched up as though he’d been pricked. Even though his ruby eyes were sightless, they almost appeared pained in a way that Alhaitham couldn’t cause with biting words.

“Come on, Kaveh. Wake up.” he whispered. Alhaitham shook his roommate, uncomfortable with the way he felt under his hands. When the architect didn’t respond, he jostled him harder. “Wake up. Please. ”

The twitching stopped. Kaveh looked at Alhaitham and blinked.

Alhaitham’s sword materialized in his hands as he blocked the sudden oncoming claymore, his teeth gritting together and the surprising force of the attack. The large, shining blade had almost hit his left side of ribs. Kaveh drew his weapon back to swing it in an upwards arc that was swiftly redirected by the Scribe’s sword.

The architect’s red eyes were wild like an animal’s, panting as he prepared to strike again. “Kaveh, you were—” Alhaitham deferred the claymore again, “ —dreaming. Stop attacking me and get your bearings!”

His words caused the momentary confusion Alhaitham needed for an opening. He held the tip of his sword to Kaveh’s chest, the green light from the blade illuminating his heaving body. Alhaitham couldn’t stand the way Kaveh was looking at him, like he’d just strangled a baby and threw its body in a gushing stream.

The claymore disappeared into balls of shimmering light. Kaveh gazed at him, the sword, and then their surroundings. “Where are we?” He asked with a shaky voice. He carefully pushed Alhaitham’s weapon to the side with the tip of his finger. “What are— what are we doing here?”

“The Grand Bazaar,” Alhaitham said, letting his sword dissipate in a burst of golden glory. It wasn’t lost on Alhaitham that Kaveh had started shivering the second he’d gained awareness. His bare feet shifted on the ground. “You slept-walked out here.”

The same expression of fear still lingered on his facial expressions and body language, his arms now pulled tight against his chest. His mouth opened, but just as quickly snapped closed. Whatever he was going to say was lost to the freezing wind.

“I didn’t bring your shoes or a heavier shirt. We’re a half-mile from my house, so we need to start walking.” Alhaitham turned around, the doors creaking open for him as he reached their stained glass designs. “Unless you want to spar again. In that case, you’d really just be wasting your time.”

Kaveh groaned and ran to catch up to Alhaitham. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Trying to take out my ribcage seemed pretty deliberate.”

For once, Kaveh didn’t rise to the bait.

It was worse to experience Kaveh’s silence than to sit through his non-stop complaining and nagging. He’d wanted to get Kaveh angry because that was easier to deal with than his concealed anguish. Kaveh’s unprovoked frenzy, filled with panic and terror, replayed in Alhaitham’s mind like a broken tape.

Alhaitham didn’t know how to comfort people. They had a half mile walk back to their house, and already he felt like he was suffocating from the tension. From his tight lips to his shivering torso and down to his stumbling bare feet, the architect was the picture-perfect representation of trepidation.

The Scribe halted. It took a moment for Kaveh to realize that he’d done so. When he turned around, Alhaitham’s jacket was extended towards him without a word.

The wind bit at his exposed arms, his thin nightshirt doing little to protect him from the cold. Kaveh gripped the jacket, hesitating before slipping his own arms and back inside it. Alhaitham ignored the way his heart rate increased at the sight of his roommate wearing his clothing and continued on with their walk.

It was a little easier to breathe the cold air after that. His neck and face were considerably warmer than the rest of his body.

“Did you dream?” Kaveh asked, his voice cutting through the night. His impartial tone was forced, unbearably dissimilar to the way he normally spoke.

“Of course,” Alhaitham replied. “Although, it was interrupted.”

Again, the bait was ignored. “What was it about?”

Kaveh pulled the jacket tighter around his body. His facial expression was contorted into careful neutrality, illuminated by the streetlights they walked under. He couldn’t tell if the question was supposed to lead into Kaveh talking about his own dream, or if he was just asking out of genuine curiosity.

If he had wanted to talk about his dream, then Kaveh already would have. Embarrassment at the sleep-walking situation wouldn’t have stopped him. So, Alhaitham answered truthfully, though he strategically decided to leave out his Archon.

“Something about books. I can’t remember the details,” he said, and then added on: “I was deaf.” Just like Kaveh predicted. Despite his roommate’s belief, Alhaitham did usually listen to his rants. It was just that they were normally so inconsequential and uninteresting that he had a tendency to forget what they were about.

He expected Kaveh to say, I told you so, or see, I was right. Instead, he was greeted with a noncommittal hum.

Alhaitham was accustomed to the quiet. He’d heard nothing in his young life until he’d begun regularly wearing hearing aids. So, really, silence shouldn’t have been so unsettling for him. Yet, everything was different when it came to Kaveh.

“What about you? It must’ve been quite the adventure to bring you to unlock the front door and run all the way to the Grand Bazaar.” It wasn’t an attempt to start an argument, but his tone certainly sounded like it.

Kaveh looked at the ground. “I can’t quite remember, either.”

Alhaitham suppressed a sigh. Lies weren’t easy to get past the Scribe — he observed people too closely for even the most secure fabrication to slip his notice. Out of all the people Alhaitham had met in his life, Kaveh had been amongst the best at lying. However, it seemed like Kaveh had barely tried to convince Alhaitham of his obvious deception.

He didn’t push the matter, opting to leave it for the next day. His roommate’s inability to bite back at Alhaitham’s small jabs made the prospect of interrogating Kaveh feel akin to setting a kitten on fire. From the way his blond hair stuck up wild from their fight to the whiteness of his knuckles clenched around the Scribe’s coat signified that their conversation was over.

When they safely entered the home, Kaveh informed Alhaitham that he’d forgotten to lock the door that night, which would’ve been how he managed to escape. They didn’t argue about it; instead, Alhaitham wordlessly locked the door and retreated to his room.

The Scribe and Acting Grand Sage of the Akademiya didn’t dream again that night. He woke up periodically, his mind in flurries as Lesser Lord Kusanali’s words haunted his conscience.

Kaveh is in danger.