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thewinchestah · 8 months

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"PREY" - Alastor x reader fic

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags: One-Shot, 18+, Smut, NSFW, edging, begging, overstimulation, Alastor does what he wants, there's plot if you squint really hard, alastor in heat, breeding kink, degradation kink, praise kink,

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Word Count: i lost count. it's big.

| Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

A/N: Helloooooo!!! I write a lot but i never publish it! My lovely friend and also biggest inspiration for this fic @smallershorteranduncut ordered me to post this and i'm nothing but her loyal servent! I hope you guys enjoy the fruits of me writing 10 google docs pages today while i was enraged. Also english isn't my first language, no beta we die like men here yadayayfayada! enjoy <;3 (UPDATE!) Part 2 is now up!

Everything about the Radio Demon seemed to be designed to make you desire him, want him. Many times in ways you weren’t even ready to admit to yourself. You haven’t been in Hell long, that’s true. But ever since you manifested here you felt like someone had picked your brain open to make Alastor the perfect bait to lure you into even more sinful, sinister paths.

He had an inexplicable magnetism around him, a piercing presence that made your eyes stuck on him when he worked a room. He had you bewitched and you hadn’t share more than polite pleasantries with each other since you became a guest at the hotel.

Today, again, you were transfixed in his gaze. Sitting in the corner of the hotel lobby, trying to make your embarrassing attraction to him go unnoticed while Alastor waltzed across the room explaining more of his wicked plans to Charlie. God, how you wish he had his wicked way with you.

He seemed more… on edge today. His red eyes glowed a little brighter, his nostrils flared a bit more, static filling the room more often, he was smiling with almost barred teeth, and everyone seemed to be avoiding him. Even Charlie was trying to politely dismiss him, the general feeling of uneasiness inside the hotel just growing larger when Angel stationed himself near your little corner of the room.

“Don’t go near that creepy motherfucker today, he’s about to lose it.” Angel alerted, almost whispering, a pair of his hands making the “crazy sign” near his head

“Isn’t he always creepy and about to lose it?” Husk added, staring at the exchange between the radio demon and Charlie.

“I’m telling you toots, I know that guy definitely isn't normal, but today he is borderline a mass extinction event. I swear, he’s just waiting for someone to give him the excuse” Angel replied, confirming your suspicions. Something was off.

“Uh. Well, about that, I think it’s time we rescue Charlie”

As if on cue Charlie turned to the corner of the room, gesticulating really hard to be taken away from the small commotion her conversation with Alastor was becoming.

“Hey Charlie, do you remember that thing with the hotel’s… personalized stationery you asked me to help you today? Let’s do it!” Said angel gently guiding Charlie away from the Radio Demon.

“Guess that’s my cue Alastor! Greaaaaat chat! As always! Have a nice day!! Byeee!” Charlie’s overly chirpy tone giving away her uneasiness.

Suddenly it felt like all the air was taken out of the room. Alastor’s neck turned into an ungodly angle, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. Static grew around the group, almost suffocating. As your vision went blurry from the sheer power that was being evoked, you contemplated if there was another afterlife. Preferably one where you didn’t inherit a death wish from your previous ones.

And as quick as it started, it was over.

Alastor just said a creepy “hm” turned on his hell, and walked away.

It almost felt like it was all in your head, but your friends standing perfectly still and dead silent next to you gave the reality of the situation away: everyone just had a near death-death experience. Maybe it would be a good topic for Charlie’s bonding exercises, who knows with this place.

“I told ya’ll. Mass. Extinction. Event. Stay out the psycho’s way”

Angel’s voice became background noise in your head, your eyes focusing on the spot where Alastor just threatened everybody’s life without saying a word. As the voices dissipated around you and normalcy slowly returned to the hotel, your mind sank deeper and deeper into the mystery that was the Radio Demon.

They were so oblivious, so naive. Thinking he wasn’t listening what they said about him behind his back. Thinking he was unaware of him being the topic of the discussion when he wasn’t looking. He could bathe in the smell of their fear, and he was relishing it.

Alastor stared at the new pretty little thing that arrived at the hotel. Oh how pathetically sweet and innocent she was, thinking she was being subtle about her infatuation with him. Thinking she could hide her interest in him, when she was nothing but a doe caught in the headlights of his eyes. Oh, she was just the perfect prey for him, wrapped in this lovely red bow she wore on her hair.

Angel was right, he was just waiting for an excuse, and she just offered him one on a silver platter. And alastor was everything but a coward.

You cursed a little bit louder than you intended when you saw the blood dripping from your finger. “Stop. making. a. spectacle. of. yourself” you mentally screamed. You still could not figure Charlie’s “special stationary stapler” out, so stapling your finger was bound to happen.

Even though it was not much, the silly little cut was stinging like a bitch, and your best efforts to stop the bleeding were futile, considering the mess on the hem of your skirt. Still high on the adrenaline from earlier, your shaking hands searched for something, anything to put on your finger so you could continue your work without anyone noticing. Everyone already had enough for one day, it was fine.

“My dear, did you just hurt yourself?” Alastor’s voice invaded your ears. Oh, fuck. That’s it, he was going to murder you for being so incompetent with the damned stapler.

Turning to face him, you meet his piercing gaze, not sure if you should run and scream for help. “Oh no worries alastor, it’s just a small cut, i can manage!” you give him your most confident smile.

Alastor’s head tilts, eyes burning red as he watches the small droplets of your blood make their way down your index finger.

“Nonsense, I can't have my staff running around with injuries and bloodied clothes. We are in hell, but we are not savages, dear” He seems transfixed by the blood, and you are too scared to move, too scared to anything other than hold the weight of his gaze and hope for the best. Your lizard brain is screaming for you to run, ask for help. Maybe Charlie isn’t too far away, could you make a run for it? Somehow your survival instincts override your brain, maybe all those hours watching true crime back on earth weren’t in vain, and you decide against running. Let him initiate first.

He catches your wrist, trapping it inside his deadly claws. His face, towering over you, comes all the way down to inspect the offending finger. You can feel his breathing on your skin.

Your breathing stops. You swallow an imaginary lump. He’s gonna bite off your fing-

“Would you be a doll and let me take care of it? Blood being unnecessary wasted truly abhors me”

You must have said yes at some point, you don’t really remember, now you are holding the red handkerchief he handed you, answering his request to “please follow him”. Trailing behind the Radio Demon, both of you walk through the large corridors.

This might be the time to scream for help. the voices inside your head warn. With every step of his feet you hear his microphone going tsk tsk tsk where it touches the ground. You are walking the death row, the paintings on the wall chanting “dead woman walking, dead woman walking”.

“Keep pressuring the wound darling, we are almost there” he gently commands you, too gently… it feels almost… soft, pleading. The way Alastor goes from 0 to 100 is giving you whiplash.

He slows down, reaching for the door knob of an unknown room. Ever the gentleman, he gestures for you to enter first.

the door locks behind you.

if i’m being murdered, at least i’m being murdered with class.

“Don’t be silly, I’m not going to murder you” Alastor says, almost singing the last part of the sentence.

“Oh fuck, i said that out loud, didn’t I?” you blurted out

“Yes you did. And yes, I also noticed your lovely doe eyes on me every time i’m in the room”

Your brain short circuits. That 's it. You are dead. He’s not going to murder you (apparently), but you are going to die of embarrassment. It will feel like murder. He knows, fuck, he knows. He knows about your crush (?) and he’s going to drag you for it. You are going to be so dragged the angels will pity you and bring you to heaven. A creative way to be redeemed, Charlie should know about this. Your thoughts are going downhill as a big snowball, there are too many of them and you can’t follow a single coherent train of thought. You don’t even want to know how you look in the middle of this. You must look pathetic, truly like a doe caught in headlights. And then you hear your name once.

Twice now, in a sing-song voice.

Your eyes fly open towards the sound, breaking from the anxiety induced spell as you realize the Radio Demon had just called you, by name. He knows your name???

“Ah hahah! You’re back.” Alastor says, as he starts to circle you like a predator. Your eyes, as always, follow his across the room.

“I don’t like to repeat myself, little doe. You heard what I asked?”

Again, you don’t really remember answering, your brain is going AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA as you watch him pace around you, eyes burning red, demanding your attention. Teeth slightly barred, voice on the edge of something. Was that “X” on his forehead always there?

“I asked if you know what you are doing to me” static fills the room as he finishes speaking. Alastor’s clawed hand trapped your bloodied finger dangerously close to his grinning lips. Your brain is doing flips as he stares deep into your soul, and when your thoughts land you make the connection. Alastor is horny. Alastor is horny for y-

“You see, little doe, I know what your eyes hide when you desperately lower them everytime I come near you. I know how you feel you can hide in plain sight if you stay quiet enough. But I can taste it. Your fear. Your lust. In the air. In your blood.” He has a white knuckled grip on your wrist now, same with his microphone. You lower your guard, eyes going from startled to lustful. “Good thing right now there’s nothing more i want in this godforsaken pit than your lust, pet”

You want this. There’s no point in lying to yourself. You want Alastor to fuck you. You’ve fantasized about the Radio Demon taking you more times than you can count. More times than you would like to admit to yourself. This feels deeply wrong, but you crave it.

Fuck it, you are in hell, there’s nothing to lose. Alastor is still watching you, impatiently. For the first time today you realize you actually forgot to say something. He’s waiting. Alastor is waiting for your permission.

“Take my breath away, Alastor”

Your permission might have been really loud, it felt like you were screaming the words. But you can’t be sure, it might have been a whisper. Either way he didn’t miss it, what happens next is fast, angry and delicious.

Alastor pounces and licks the blood on your finger, something clicks inside him as he tastes the red liquid, because he lets go of his microphone instantly and his arms grab your waist aggressively, so forceful you wouldn’t be surprised if it breaks skin. You shouldn’t be so turned on by this, by the sight of a psychopathic demon drinking your blood. But you are, and there’s no going back.

“Strip” he orders. You want to say to him that you can’t take your clothes off your person with him holding you like this. He must have realized the conundrum: if he wants you naked, he has to let go of you. To Alastor, letting go of you right now is simply unthinkable. So he doesn’t: you feel his claws cut the bodice of your dress open, sending the most delicious shivers down your spine. Another claw rips your skirt apart, and you are almost fully naked in the Radio Demon’s arms, pressing your body hard on his still impeccable dressed body.

It’s humiliating, it’s dangerous, it’s hot, it is delicious, to be at his complete mercy, just how you always wanted.

Somehow both of you made your way close to the enormous bed in the middle of the room. Alastor cornered you, so the only way you could escape was walking backwards towards the bed. The brilliant bastard.

You feel your calves hitting the edge of the bed, and Alastor breaks away.

Pity, your mind complains. Get him back to touching you again. right. now,.

“Now now, we should establish some rules for this, pet” Alastor’s hands might have stopped touching you, but his piercing eyes never did. He knocks you on top of the bed, you lay there sprawled open just for him. His hands move up to do a quick work of his bowtie

“Rule one: you will take what I give you. Nothing more, nothing less. What I give you is enough. You might feel like you can’t take anymore, but you can. You will take it, I will make you take it” He takes his tailcoat off, his frame towering over you, even with your body completely flat on the mattress and his in front of it.

“ Rule two: every ounce of your pleasure is mine and mine only. Mine to give, mine to take. And you will give me everything. I want to hear every sound, to feel every touch, to know every nasty thought that runs inside that pretty little head of yours. You will not suppress anything, I wanna hear your moans when you make a mess of yourself as I take everything I desire from your delicious body. I will relish on your desperate screams of pleasure.Nothing outside these walls matter” He is climbing on the bed now. You hold the weight of his gaze, underneath your demonic lover’s eyes your skin burns.

“Rule three: don’t you dare cum without my permission, good girls earn their orgasms and you will be a good girl. Or else…” static starts to pick up around the room, you are seeing the blackest black that ever was, his shadows enveloping you both. Nothing outside these walls matter. “Understood?” Alastor says as he pins your hands on top of your head, against the fancy headboard. His hand cups one of your boobs and he is worrying your nipple between his sharp claws. finally finally, your mind sings. You feel a surge of magic binding your wrists in green chains, attached to the headboard. It’s overbearing, it’s ridiculous. His magic feels like him, another part of him for you to take.

He pinches your nipple particularly hard and you moan softly, pleasure and pain consuming any other sensation. You forgot to answer him, you realize. You’ve barely started and you are already being bad. “yes alastor, yes.. but please don’t stop” the soft whimper leaves your lips.

“lovely.” he replies, and with that his mouth is on your nipple, sucking it while he administers his wicked ministrations to your other one. His sharp teeth prickling on the edge of breaking skin, and you already feel like you won’t be able to take all of him.

His hand trails down to aggressively grip your thighs, his tongue sucking the neglected nipple his fingers left. Your moans become frequent and messy, if he’s already making you go insane with the beginnings of foreplay... You might pass out and die when he starts fucking you, but you don’t care. Let him show you the true meaning of la petite mort.

“My my, what do we have here” his hand leaves your thigh to trace the wetness of your panties. A clawed finger rips it apart, the last barrier between you and total consumption by the Radio Demon. He takes the finger between your glistening lips, not entering, just teasing

“I don’t think i will get enough of this pretty little body of ours anytime soon, pet” he says as his finger finally enters your sex, He moves his digit with an expertise you didn’t really know he had in him, making you whimper his name, ooohs and aaaahs, your hips start threshing from the pleasure. If you continue at this pace, you will be begging for permission to cum too soon. Pathetic. you think to yourself. Because you know how hard this building orgasm will be,you don’t know if he will grant you more than one orgasm. And will you murder you yourself if you don’t feel his cock inside you tonight. You take a deep breath in between your moans and will your hips to stay in place, your nerves to calm down.

Alastor adds another finger, and it takes all of your willpower not to become a puddle of wetness right there. You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“you do make a mess of yourself, don’t you? you just can’t help it” he says as he curls his digits inside you. Your hips start thrashing hard again, and you sink them deeper into the bed. The chains on your wrists shake with the effort to hold back. As if alastor wasn’t going to notice. “no no no what did I say?” he snaps angrily, he’s eyes flash red at you and he takes his fingers out with a wet “pop”, you feel like crying at the emptiness. “please please alastor, don’t stop” you plead. His hands leave you entirely, you are left with just his piercing gaze, the one that makes your skin burn. “did I say you could hold back? don’t pretend like you aren’t a common whore for me, that you love how pathetic it feels that you are creaming yourself and we haven’t even really started”

his condescending tone just makes everything even more sublime. It’s so wrong how good being told you are nothing more than a common whore by the Radio Demon feels. But you never felt anything close to this. “please Alastor” you beg again, nothing but a small whisper

“I would love to taste this pussy, so red already for me, but since you broke one of the rules… i’m afraid I will make you understand that are nothing but my pretty cockslut the hard way”

Punishment? His punishment sounds ever better than his praise right now. You moan at his voice. He laughs.

His knees cage you, as he lifts his upper body from you and starts undoing his zipper. He is taking his cock out. Oh fuck, he’s gonna fuck you without anymore foreplay. And he’s not going to be gentle about it either. You shiver.

Alastor pumps himself a few times, his cock is big, thick, and an angry red shade, flush red like that, because of you, just for you. He’s gonna make you pay: pay for holding back from him, pay for making him feel like an animal and almost losing his hard constructed control.

The look on his face says it all, he’s gonna take it out on you and you can’t do nothing about it.

You don’t have much time to think about the repercussions, in one swift motion his tip is already inside you, stretching you deliciously. Your brain short circuits again, the feeling of his cock inside you is everything you imagine and more. Depraved, heavenly, delicious. You struggle in your binds again, you want desperately to touch him. To feel his skin beneath your finger, to scratch him, mark him. But oh well, he’s the Radio Demon, he’s the one in charge and you are his prey.

Alastor starts to slowly enter you, he’s trying his best to hold back. He knows if he does this too fast it will hurt in a way he doesn’t want you to feel. And by the look on his face going slow is as torturous for him as it is for you. tantalizing inch after tantalizing inch he spreads the walls of your cunt apart. You understand now why this is punishment, it hurts in a perfect way, it hurts even more that he is doing it slowly, and not just thrusting like you imagined he would, if he had more time to work on you.

You become a mess of moans and incoherent words. His cock is halfway inside you now “HoLY FUCK ALASTOR” you scream. It’s already too much.

“There’s nothing holy about this my dear. I’m going to breed you. I’m going to break you” and with that he buries himself to the hilt inside you. Now you truly scream in pleasure and pain “you won’t be able to walk straight for days, you will feel me in every step, and you will thank me for it”. His thrusts pick up at breakneck speed, the bed shakes from the sheer force that Alastor is using to fuck you. Every snap of his hips you moan more and more.

The sound you make when he takes everything out and enters you at once is so obscene that it would make Angel Dust blush. He’s growling now, his antlers growing bigger as he fucks you like his life dependend on it. As he fucks you like he hates you.

Alastor pushes your hips higher, and suddenly he’s even deeper. His other hand holding your waist in a bruising grip. The strain on your pinned hands will bruise too. His lips graze the skin of your collarbone, he looks so feral you are scared he will maul, the thrill of not knowing adding to your fucked up sense of pleasure.

He seems to pick up on your fear, and bites down on your collarbone, hauling as he tastes your blood and buries himself inside you again and again. Moans turned into screams, and the only thing coming out of your lips is his name, spoken like a profane prayer. You would give everything you have to Alastor, and he doesn’t even have to ask.

Your orgasm has been building for a while now, the coil on your belly becoming tighter and tighter, like a supernova about to be born. “Alastor, please please let me come” you beg. His unfocused eyes stare down at you, as he takes a moment from feasting on your sweet blood to address your desperate, sweet pleas.

“Don’t. You. Dare” he says, punctuating every word with a sharp thrust. As much as you want, you are not sure you will be able to hold any longer. “I beg you alastor, please let me cum, i will let you do anything you want. but i need it so badly, please please”

You sounded so desperate when you begged, so beautiful.

“Don’t strike deals you don’t know you can fulfill, pet” his voice is low, a warning. You ignore it. “I promise Alastor, anything”. Alastor laughs.

his finger touches your clit as he finally allows your sweet relief “you may come now, sweet doe” and that’s it, you are off, you are dead. You see stars, you see the entire universe as you scream out and climax. Walls tightening around Alastor’s monster cock, eyes rowling, his name a scream on your lips. You ride out your wave slowly, but Alastor is not slowing down.

Instead he is picking up his pace, maneuvering your hips even higher, your chains are stretched to the limit. You can feel them start piercing your skin. Thrust after thrust the sensation becomes too much, you are too overstimulated to go through all of this again.

“i can’t take it, i can’t take it!”

Alastor doesn’t care. “I told you not to make deals if you can’t hold them, didn’t I?” You don’t answer, you can’t. you can’t to anything but let him fuck you as hard and as much as he want. “but you are such a little cockslut for me that you can’t help it. What a shame”

He is gripping your hips so hard it breaks skin, tiny trails of blood on his claws. “you will take it. You better take it, or I will make you take it” static picks up as he threatens the last words. You know you are spent, you know how bad it hurts, you know how bad his words sound, but the lines between pleasure and pain are so blurred that you can’t think coherently. Even this pain of being broken feels good.

Still, tears fill your eyes and you start crying, from pleasure, from pain, you don’t know anymore. What Alastor is doing to you has no precedent. No one can do this like he does. He knows torture too well, and he is tortouring you in the most decadent, delicious ways possible. “alastor i want to, i want to so bad but i just can’t” the tears sting your eyes and stain your face.

Alastor sees it. He slows down just a bit, his voice softening “oh my dear doe, but you can. Just this once more, just for me. One more” his voice is so maddening soft it acts like fuel to your tears. Your skin tingles and you feel giddy, somehow your throbbing hot, wet cunt seems to find the right amount of relief, and you can feel only pleasure again.

Alastor continues to fuck you, your moans returning to normal, you are being so loud now, making a mess of yourself, just like he said, and a big hand comes to cover your mouth.

“Oh we can’t have you being this loud can we?” his voice goes to that delicious mocking tone. His thrusts are slower now, but as deep as they can go. “what would you friends say if they found out that you moan like a common whore for their feared radio demon.. hum,.?”

You start to feel the pit of your belly tightening again, and alastor doesn’t stop humiliating you. The degradation feels just the right amount of perfection. You are exactly what he says you are. A common whore when it comes to him. “weren’t you ashamed just a few moments ago? trying to hold back the sinful sounds you make when I touch you? I already gave you one orgasm. I’ve been way too generous for my liking. I should stop right now since you feel so conscious about this” Alator’s breathing is becoming erratic, his thrusts sharp, hard, and out of the breakneck rhythm he was torturing you before.You start moaning even louder through his hand. “ungrateful little pet. You are just so greedy for one more orgasm, you don’t even care that everyone downstairs can hear you hm??”

You can’t think straight. you feel on the edge of glory, this orgasm threatening to be harder than your previous one, as if it is possible. “alastor i’m so sorry, i know i don’t deserve it” you muffle behind his hand, he hears you speaking and takes if off “but can you please let me cum? just this once? just for you. Please Al” his thrusts are truly erratic now. He’s close too, even though you are too wrapped up on your own sensations to notice

“please” you beg, nothing more than a whisper. Already making peace with the fact that you are going to come without his permission and he will probably never fuck you again

“Good girl, you can come now”

instantly as you are granted his permissions your world explodes, blinding hot pleasure takes over your body, the waves of pleasure making your heart beat so fast you feel like it’s going to stop. The petit mort is coming, and her sweet embrace envelops you, specially now that you feel Alastor’s cock twitching and spilling his seed inside you. You scream his name. Maybe you hear him screaming yours too. You don’t know anymore, your nerves are singing from pleasure unheard of back when you were alive. Pleasure so great it could only be found in hell. The most heavily, depraved way of torture.

You come down from your high, still dizzy, your body going limp. You are not dead, but you are positively spent. You give in into the warm and fuzziness of sleep.

The last thing you remember is the softness of a blanket, a gentle kiss on your cheek.

“Oh my dear, I knew you had one more on you,spending yourself this way just for me! What a truly precious thing, doe”

You might be dreaming now.

You weren’t dreaming. Alastor praises you, knowing his words will be the last thing you hear before a night of peaceful, deep dreamless slumber. He makes sure to put the softest velvet blanket he owns on your body, not to make the damage you gladly allowed your body to take for him an inconvenience. Tomorrow you will wake up to fancy letters of praise and sweet chocolate covered strawberries. And no one will know how Alastor found the perfect doe to breed as he pleases during the height of his mating season.

#hello guys im insane can you tell?#eu escrevi isso aqui na força do odio puro e genuino de quem ta sendo xingada no twitter tem dias #alastor #alstor smut #alastor x reader #alastor x reader smut #alastor fanfic #the radio demon #the radio demon x you #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #hazbin fic #autora também está no cio #serio aquela msuica sento no bico da glock rebolo e tiro o short e vem vamo fudeee o gabriel tirou o meu cabaço e me botou de quatro nao #sai da minha cabeça #aquariano nato também não #QUEBRA A CAMA DESSAS PUTAAAAAAAAA #baixaria

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eoieopda · 2 months

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whiskey neat | jwy

there’s no common ground between yours and wooyoung’s vastly different circles. that is, until tuesday nights at the black cat form the center of the venn diagram.

pairing: jung wooyoung x reader au: strangers to something type: one-shot | smut wc: 8.3k rating: 18+ | minors do not have my consent to interact. cw: inspired by hozier’s “too sweet”, primarily wooyoung’s pov with one switch at the end; bartender!wooyoung, musician!reader, alcohol use, setting is a bar, uhhh wooyoung is a (to the tune of that arctic monkeys song) cigarette smoker, oral sex (v), protected sex (p in v), corruption kink kind of?, use of “sweetheart” (fatal). reader notes: afab (gender identity not designated); kind of naive; into fitness/“wellness” (no body type/weight is described, except wooyoung thinking they’re “strong” + reader thinking that they are in the best shape of their life); wears a sundress at the beginning. the following terms are used in the scenes involving smut: pussy, cunt, clit, tits (no description given). a/n: i quite literally started this in march 2024 and then experienced the most severe hobby death of all time. this is coming after five (5) months of scooping it out of my brain with a melon-baller, so… not my best, but here she is! thanks @sailoryooons for beta-ing because i’m self-conscious lately 🍤

Tuesday nights at the Black Cat never used to be busy.

For three years, Wooyoung spent the majority of his shifts behind the bar doing fuck all: Folding receipt paper into increasingly complicated and wasteful shapes; replacing citrus wedges that went unused and then brown; paying visits to the stray cat camping out in the alley near the dumpster. He’d go hours without talking to another human being, and he never took issue with it, even if his wallet did.

Two months ago, however, things changed.

Two months ago, management started panicking about the lack of revenue. To keep the lights on and draw in a crowd of (hopefully) soon-to-be regulars, they implemented a schedule of recurring events — some monthly, others weekly, most stupid.

Wooyoung’s precious solitude disappeared, and in its place, he got trivia nights and turntable DJs, showing off their collections of vinyls. Games of bingo targeting hipsters, who show up en masse to fight it out for prizes — potted plants, of all things — they could easily buy on their own for far less than their tabs’ totals. Themed brunches.

A million other events and just as many used glasses to wash.

Despite his ever-present scowl — his face just looks like that — it hasn’t been all bad. Without the newly-added acoustic sessions, the bar wouldn’t need a local performer to both play and host on a biweekly basis. Management wouldn’t have reached out to you; and you’d have no fucking reason to come to a dive like this. Suffice it to say, your pilates-practicing, daylight-disciplined circle of doers would never otherwise overlap with Wooyoung’s, in all its nocturnal, nicotine-dependent grit.

Tuesday nights at the Black Cat now occupy the center of the Venn diagram.

As usual, you come traipsing in half an hour before your set starts with a gig bag slung over your shoulder and a megawatt smile on your face. This is your natural state, he’s come to learn. Solar-powered. It shouldn’t be possible, but you manage to brighten further when your searching eyes find him sitting on the counter behind the register.

Through no fault of his own, Wooyoung’s gaze trails down from your face to the little sundress you’re wearing. It’s new, he notes immediately. The skirt of it flutters with each step you take, showing off more and more of your thighs as you move.

You don’t react to the migrating fabric. Just the same, you don’t notice his appraisal or the way patrons’ heads turn as you cross the bar.

No surprise there, he thinks.

From the four (4) entire conversations the two of you have had so far, you’ve made one thing abundantly clear: You’re inclined to assume the best of people and their intentions.

Nine times out of ten, Wooyoung dodges naivety like that the second it starts skipping his way, well-versed in the consequences of trusting so implicitly. You and your cotton-candy smile have proven to be the outlier, though. Working in tandem, you and that grin have him pinned where he sits with no urge to run.

You don’t notice that, either.

When you slide onto the stool across the bar from him, Wooyoung finally clocks what you’re holding. Your right hand grips some green concoction that he suspects was made with kale. Or moss? In your left hand, an iced Americano — beautifully black — weeps condensation onto manicured fingers, making hard-earned calluses glisten.

Wooyoung’s racing thoughts about those hands are still inflicting psychic damage when you lean further over the counter.

“Extra shot of espresso,” you hum as you hold the coffee out to him. You do your best to tease him, though you’re shy as hell about it, so the words still manage to come gently: “For those of us who were still awake when the sun came up.”

Wooyoung mentioned his coffee order several weeks ago in passing. It’s sweet in a way he’s not used to that you’ve not only remembered how he takes his coffee, but that you’ve brought it to him ever since, apropos of nothing, when all he’s ever done is his best to get a rise out of you. What he’s up to isn’t sweet — not by a long-shot — but it’s easily done and well worth the misplaced effort when he sees how flustered he can make you.

Wooyoung tilts his head, draws his lips in a straight line, and gestures to your cup with his. “Worry about those waking up shortly after sunrise, sweetheart. They’re drinking algae.”

As intended, you’re visibly affected by the pet name, so much so that you stumble over your defense. “It — it’s healthy!”

“It’s swampy.”

Your nose scrunches indignantly, prompting the edge of Wooyoung’s mouth to tick upwards. He doesn’t emote more than that. Five (5) conversations in now, and he’s already picked up on how much it gets to you when he only concedes a hint of a smirk.

As much as he’d relish the opportunity to sit here and keep toying with you, the crowd surrounding you has doubled in a matter of minutes. Just over your shoulder, Wooyoung sees a patron glance down at the screen of her phone to check the time; then, he hears the complaint she thinks is muttered quietly under her breath. It’s not. In fact, you hear it, too, and you divert your wide, heart-shaped eyes away from him. That smile of yours curves in the wrong direction once you do.

When you look back at him, you say, “I should go,” but he hears it for what it is: an apology.

He’s never been good at ending conversations — especially in the rare case that he’d prefer to keep one going — so he nods, leaves it at that. You pause for a nanosecond, as if you’ve got something else to add, but you don’t. You smooth down the back of your dress once you’ve hopped from the stool to your feet. Then, you mimic his gesture.

You make it two steps towards the stage before Wooyoung calls out to you, prompting you to spin back around and your dress to flutter:

“Thanks for the coffee, sweetheart.”

Your frown disappears instantly. The smile that replaces it is still there when you disappear into the crowd, only to resurface several seconds later on the tiny stage across the room.

Guitar now in hand, you duck your head through the woven strap, shuffling carefully closer to the microphone stand. You introduce yourself, strum a quiet, major chord, and chirp, “Welcome to both the Black Cat and my favorite day of the week.”

Normally, you leave shortly after your last set, as if you’ll turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes ten. With the schedule you keep, it’s no wonder. From what Wooyoung has gathered so far, you wake up before dawn most days to get a workout in before heading to the office. The very idea makes him nauseous whenever he thinks too long about it, so he does his best not to.

Mornings are for sleeping, he told you once.

Life is for living, you’d replied.

Apparently, the two of you have drastically different ideas about what living looks like.

For Wooyoung, life on Tuesday nights looks like catering to a steadily dwindling crowd once you finish up and disappear with a friendly wave goodbye. It’s cleaning up sticky spills, resetting migrated stools, and doing a half-ass restock that will make the opener — him — complain about the closer — again, him — when his next shift starts at 5:00 PM on Wednesday.

In the gap between his shifts, life looks like meeting up with his similarly shadow-dwelling friends on someone’s balcony to chain-smoke, sip whiskey, and watch the sunrise until he gets bored. From there, it’s either walking back to his apartment or kicking said friends out of his, so he can rot in front of his PC. Eventually, life looks like blackout shades and crashing into bed while the world around him heads out for brunch.

Tonight, however, life is starting to look a little different.

When you wander over, it’s not to say goodnight or close out the tab you think you’ve accrued, which Wooyoung never opened in the first place.

Maybe, he thinks, you’ve finally caught on that all these “technical issues with the point-of-sale system” — occurring for the last four (4) shows in relation to one (1) patron in particular — can’t possibly be a coincidence. That a free drink given will always beget a free drink received. That Wooyoung doesn’t deal in unpaid debts, even if he hasn’t and won’t own up to his petty workplace theft.

You sidle up to his bar and slip back into the stool you’d previously occupied, no more aware of the way your sundress shifts now than you were earlier. Likewise, he’s no less blatant with the way he looks you up and down, eyes lingering unabashedly and hungrily. The pair of you float in each other’s orbit for a few moments just like this: waiting for the other to speak first.

“Don’t you go to yoga class at ass o’clock on Wednesdays?” He eventually inquires, leaning back against the counter behind him with his arms crossed and head tilted.

Your eyes flick down to the screen of your phone, which rests face-up on the bar between your elbows. You clock the time but not the way your current posture causes the neckline of your mostly modest dress to plunge. Conflict creases between your eyebrows, then you tilt your chin to look at him.

Wooyoung knows that look, although he’s never seen it on you before. That look begs to be talked into something, rather than out of it. It’s a look he gets often. For better or for worse, it’s one he never turns down.

“I do,” you admit through a sigh.

Offering nothing more than a hum to indicate his intrigue, Wooyoung watches you and waits patiently for you to elaborate. Another few seconds slip by without a word. His attention makes you shy, he notes; he loves it.

But he loves the idea of toying with you even more, so when you don’t say anything else, he takes that attention and diverts it to the few remaining patrons, all of whom have vested interest in closing out and getting out.

Good riddance, he thinks as the last of them stumbles out and away, leaving the two of you in charged silence.

Even more seconds pass.

Still nothing.

Wooyoung glances around and finds a bottle of Jameson on its very last leg. It’s the perfect amount for a litmus test — two shots left, nothing more to give and everything to prove. Snatching two overturned shot glasses from where they dry on a holed rubber mat, he empties the whiskey evenly and turns back to you with an eyebrow raised.

Your eyes widen slightly when he sets the spare on the bar in front of you, more so with interest than surprise. For a moment, you stare at it with the same ambivalent expression, nibbling thoughtfully on your lower lip.

Finally, you all but whisper, “I should’ve been in bed an hour ago.”

With his left palm flat against the bar, Wooyoung rests his weight and leans in, eyelids and voice dropping. “Why aren’t you?” He murmurs, gaze flicking down to your lips then back up again — just long enough for you to notice that he was, in fact, looking. “Hmm?”

Your breath hitches — just loudly enough for him to notice that you are, in fact, finding it hard to function this closely to him.

“On a school night, no less.” His eyes narrow teasingly.

“I’m asking myself the same question,” you confess, though you’re the picture of innocence. Your fingertip traces idly down the side of your shot glass, then back up again.

He’s as distracted by the mindless movement as you are, albeit for different reasons. Before he lets himself get carried away in wondering whether or not your touch is always that delicate, Wooyoung lifts his glass and gestures for you to do the same. “Sounds like you could use a bad influence.”

A soft clink permeates when your glasses touch, followed by a muted thump when the bottom of each one is tapped against the bar. Your heads are thrown back in unison, just like your drinks, and when your faces finally level out towards one another’s, you counter him breezily, “Maybe you could use a good one.”

Wooyoung thinks he could use more than that.

Breaking eye contact, you glance down at your phone again. It’s obvious that you’re second-guessing your decision to linger. He wants to chuck that brick in the bin with the other useless shit, to get rid of any excuse you might give for having to leave, but he doesn’t.

And you don’t give him an excuse.

Your hand wraps around that fucking phone, then you stand up slowly.

“Try not to stay up too late,” you advise with a smile that still manages to read like disappointment.

Don’t.

Reaching into the pocket of your jacket, you pull out the tips you made tonight and collect a few bills before dropping them on the counter to cover the shot you didn’t even order. Wooyoung wants to tell you not to — that your money isn’t good here, even if you are — but he knows it won’t make a difference.

You sling your gig bag over your shoulder, thank him, and tell him that you’ll see him in two weeks.

He scrubs his hands over his face the second you walk out the door and mutters through gritted teeth, “Fuck.”

You don’t see Wooyoung in two weeks.

As a matter of fact, you cancel your acoustic session for the first time ever. Management either doesn’t know why you bailed or doesn’t think it’s any of Wooyoung’s business, so no one bothers to tell him. If he’d ever thought to ask for your number, he could check in on you himself, but he didn’t and therefore can’t.

Ignorant and annoyed, he resigns himself to occupying an empty tavern on a goddamn Tuesday night, yet again.

Nobody brings him coffee.

Nobody worth talking to crosses the threshold.

No one makes little comments — genuine concerns poorly disguised as digs — when he uses the paring knife to carve little stars into the lip of the bar top, instead of slicing limes.

And when he gives up and closes down early, he’s so tired of his own shit that he simply goes home and goes to bed.

Bed being the operative word.

He doesn’t go to sleep, even though he has nothing better to do. Alternatively, Wooyoung replays your last interaction on a loop in his head, daydreaming about what could’ve happened if you’d stayed. While his thoughts spiral, his hand drifts, finds the pulse beneath the zipper of his jeans, and feels the throbbing ache building through the denim.

It’s pathetic.

He knows it.

Too bad that doesn’t stop him from fucking his fist every night for the next several, imagining how much softer yours must feel.

The patron pulls a face the absolute second Wooyoung slides her glass across the bar.

Wholly uninterested in the response one way or another, he slathers on his customer-service smile and asks her, “Alright?”, in a tone that doesn’t match his expression in the slightest.

“There’s no ice in it,” she mumbles, cringing in mild horror as she does. As if the liquor features his spit instead. “I wanted ice.”

There’s a split second where he almost lets his mask crack, says something shitty just because his mood was already sour before she walked over. Wooyoung doesn’t get the opportunity, however. Over the girl’s shoulder, someone gently intervenes: “Neat means no ice. You’d have needed to order it on the rocks.”

A beat passes, then comes, “Or — you know, with ice, please.”

Wooyoung neither hears nor cares what the girl says in response. She shuffles off, and that’s all that matters. Without her body blocking the way, he sees you clearly. You’re more done-up than usual, like you’ve just come from somewhere far nicer than here.

“It’s Saturday.”

Probably should’ve started with hello.

After eyeing the glowing, neon clock on the wall, Wooyoung notices that both hands are pointed skyward. He corrects himself, “Nah, it’s Sunday.”

You slip into the now-unoccupied stool ahead of him and nod, chuckling like you can’t believe it, either. When you settle in, you prop your elbow on the bar top, then your chin upon the heel of your hand. Just above, your eyes twinkle with a kind of mischief he’s never seen you wear before.

That might be the thin veil of tipsiness, actually.

Not that he’s complaining.

Wooyoung hides his amusement by bending over and rummaging through the under-counter refrigerator that hums beneath the register. The rush of cool air has nothing to do with how awake he suddenly feels. He wonders if you feel the same but can’t ask outright; eagerness isn’t his style.

“You’re here on purpose?” He asks instead, resurfacing with a bottle of soju — some new, fruity flavor he assumes you’ll like — and a raised eyebrow.

You hum appreciatively when you see what he’s holding. That soft sound that punches him right in the center of his chest with force. “I was out with friends, but…”

Your voice trails off, too distracted by his hand enveloping the seal-covered bottle cap. With a firm grip and quick twist, it’s gone. You’re still eyeing his hands, he notes, even though all they’re doing is holding the bottle.

Normally, he’d love to give you the benefit of the doubt and attribute your sudden fixation on the rings he wears. It wouldn’t be the first time a man in jewelry snags attention, complimentary or otherwise. Unfortunately — or maybe fortunately? — for you, Wooyoung forgot to put his usual accessories back on after this afternoon’s shower.

Nope, he thinks, biting back a wolfish grin. He’s not alone. You daydream about his touch, too.

Catching yourself staring, you shift atop your stool with a quiet, self-conscious laugh that sounds more like a sigh. He opts to let it go without further teasing, but he doesn’t let it go entirely. That breathy little noise echoes in his ears, drowning out the faint slosh of liquor as he fills your glass.

In a weak attempt to distract himself, he remembers your half-finished sentence and prompts with a low voice, “But?”

“They wanted to end the night.” You accept the glass into your hand from his and raise it slightly in thanks. “I didn’t,” you whisper, then bring the rim to your lips to cloak their upward curve.

Wooyoung would be lying if he said your tiny act of defiance didn’t send all the blood in his body rushing straight to his dick. Maybe it’s arrogant of him to assume that he’s the source of this newfound rebelliousness. The spark that lit the fuse, or whatever. Maybe that should bother him. Of course, it doesn’t.

In an effort to hide how strong of a chord your confession has struck, he gestures with one extended finger to the clock. Your eyes follow, and he leans in closer; the smirk you can’t see is still evident in his voice, he’s sure. “How much of a coincidence is it that you showed up right before the trains stop running?”

When your gaze flicks momentarily back to him, he spots a hint of surprise. This impeccable timing wasn’t a scheme at all, he realizes. Not a plot. If he had to bet, Wooyoung would guess that you’re never out late enough to know that the train schedule ends at all.

God, you’re going to give him a cavity.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Coincidentally, I know someone who gets off just in time to walk you home.”

“This gonna bother you?”

Having stepped out of the bar before Wooyoung, his question prompts you to look back over your shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised slightly out of curiosity. He lifts his right hand from his jacket pocket to reveal the half-spent pack of cigarettes he’d been storing there.

He expects it to, and to his surprise, he cares enough about that possibility that he doesn’t light up without asking in the way he normally would.

“In theory, yes,” you laugh, “because I’d prefer your lungs to be tar-free.”

“And in practice?”

You must not have expected him to note the distinction; you fluster. Grinning slightly, Wooyoung answers his own question on your behalf, “In practice, you find it kind of hot.”

He keeps his eyes on you as he pulls a cigarette from the pack — slowly, to test his hypothesis that you’ve got a thing for his hands — and then, Wooyoung slides the cardboard back into his pocket.

Your gaze follows while he gently places the filtered end between his lips. It stays put when he furnishes a lighter, holds the flame to the opposite side, and inhales. Turning his head to the side, Wooyoung exhales the smoke where it won’t reach you.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” he assures you, eyes devilish. Deer in headlights that you are, you freeze but for the bob of your throat as you swallow. “I won’t make you admit it out loud.”

Yet.

Once he’s decided that he’s played with you enough for the time being, two of you head south, ambling under streetlights without any sense of urgency. Making up for lost time, maybe; picking up where the last Tuesday left off.

He can’t tell if it’s the alcohol making you more talkative than usual, or if you’re feeling the rush of your off-brand decisions, but Wooyoung’s fine with it, either way. You tell him about your week — in full and without hesitation — like you’re chatting to a friend and not someone you’ve only just started to encounter on a brief, twice-monthly basis.

You had a date this Tuesday night, he learns. It didn’t go well. Too similar, you explain with a wave of your hand. According to you, it’s boring to sit with you at a dinner table. Wooyoung looks pointedly at you as soon as he hears it, noting his disagreement. For a second, you assume something he doesn’t mean: that he enjoys his own company more than you enjoy yours.

“No,” he corrects you. “I just can’t picture dinner with you as something boring.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “Oh,” is all you manage in reply.

Wooyoung follows your lead across several more city blocks, hanging on every word you say in the meantime. When the pair of you reach the front of your apartment building, his cigarette is spent, but neither one of you is. He takes an extra step towards the garbage can near the door and drops the butt amidst the others in the lid, which doubles as an ashtray. A faint vein of smoke bleeds out until the dark sky laps it up entirely.

You look conflicted when he turns back in your direction. Clearly, you don’t want him to leave just yet, but asking him upstairs is likely way out of your pattern of behavior. Wooyoung sees two options: He could say goodnight and go; take a few steps towards his side of the city, and hope you to act even further out of character, or —

“If you’re asking, I’m saying yes.”

— he could go off-script entirely.

Your apartment looks exactly the way Wooyoung expected it to. Everything is cozy; a far cry from the modern and monochrome edge of his place. It all makes sense, based on what he’s learned about you so far. Feels like you, although he’ll concede that you haven’t been felt by him just yet.

Each shelf features a tchotchke or framed photograph — or several — but not a single speck of dust. Likewise, the various potted plants you’ve displayed artfully around the space are well-kept. Flourishing, he assumes, despite the fact that he doesn’t know shit about fuck when it comes to plants.

His shoes, ratty in comparison to yours, are toed off at the door before he follows you further into the kitchen. You stop at the island, bottom lip between your teeth once again. Unsure, you nibble on it, like it’ll help you set your dizzy mind straight.

When Wooyoung inches closer to you, he does it slowly, even though every part of his body demands that he ramp up the pace. As badly as he wants his hands — and his teeth, and his tongue…— all over you now, he can’t be the jump scare that sets your little bunny heart to sprinting. The adrenaline is practically vibrating off your frame already with every step he takes in your direction.

Though you could, you don’t move further away, the nearer he gets. You stay put with the small of your back against the lip of the granite counter, hypnotized. Right where he wants you.

Once he’s close enough, Wooyoung tests the waters. You let him; your gaze clings to him so strongly that he feels the weight of it without reciprocating. With his thumb and forefinger, he traces the belt loop closest to your left hip, then tugs slightly, making your breath quicken for a moment.

Eyes still focused on his own ministrations, he murmurs, “Am I the first stray you’ve ever brought home?”

You don’t answer with words. His gaze flicks upwards, and from under heavy-lidded eyes, he sees the tiny nod.

“Full of surprises.” He looks down again, purposely depriving you of eye contact, and moves his fingers from your belt loop so that the pad of his thumb brushes over the top of your jeans. There, the skin of your hip peeks out from under the denim, hot to the touch. “Not just sweet, are you?”

“Someone told me I needed a bad influence.”

The sudden re-introduction of your voice pulls his focus. You stare back at him boldly, and it feels like a dare. Both of his hands move to your hips now, simultaneously guiding you closer to his chest and keeping you pinned between his body and the island.

“You’ll miss your Sunday morning pilates, I fear,” he tuts with a slight shake of his head.

“You’ll make attending redundant, I hope.”

And then your mouth is on his, all tongue and teeth, while you card desperate fingers through his hair. It occurs to him, as he licks into your mouth, that the split-dyed strands you're clinging to are a microcosm.

Black and white.

Conflicting tastes, like sugar and salt, that only make sense together in certain contexts. Like this one — right here, right now — with the two of you tangled up in your half-lit kitchen, so caught up in exploration that inhibition takes the backseat. Steeping in the aftertaste of soju and cigarette smoke, scent heady like arousal.

You break the kiss to catch your breath but can’t make it very far. His teeth claim your bottom lip, pulling forth the softest little growl he’s ever heard.

“Fuck,” he echoes with a growl of his own.

That’s it. Breathing is overrated. Wooyoung’s ready to suffocate, so long as you let him.

“Lay back on the counter.”

You’re stunned into silence for a second, and while you blink back at him, he wonders if you’ll actually let him eat you out where you eat. It’s objectively filthy, he knows, but he might drop dead where he stands if he has to wait another second — or take another step elsewhere — before he tastes you.

Your answer is a leap, figuratively and literally. The hands you’ve been using to cling to him each flatten palm-down on the island behind you. With his grip on your hips to boost you, you scramble to your new stage; and you shatter the conservative expectations he had for you in the process.

A newfound confidence flashes in your eyes, making his stomach flip and his dick twitch. A patronizing frown graces your kiss-bitten lips. “You didn’t walk three kilometers here just to look at me, did you?”

He sure as shit didn’t. Still, he can’t help but bask in the odd sense of pride he feels in staring up at you on the pedestal he put you on. The more time you spend with him, the rougher you seem to get around the edges; and he’d be lying through his teeth if he said he didn’t love the grit.

In lieu of a verbal response, Wooyoung locks eyes with you and gestures downward with the index finger of his right hand. You follow his silent command eagerly and without question; he keeps the praise you’ve earned on the tip of his tongue, saving it for later.

It takes less time than he expects to strip you of your jeans, most of which is attributed to slipping them off your ankles and dropping them blindly over his shoulder. They hit what he believes to be the range with a soft twack, then a barely audible crumple when they finally find the floor.

Your lace underwear disappears in a similar fashion, albeit more eagerly. Couldn’t be helped, he thinks. That scrap of fabric was the last barrier between him and the thing he’s been craving most since he met you; and fuck, if you don’t exceed his expectations once again.

“Christ,” is all he can say.

It’s rare to find a pussy so perfect that it wipes out his vocabulary, let alone makes him want to weep. That’s exactly what’s waiting for him when you spread your thighs wide enough to accommodate his body between them. Really, the only thing driving him more insane than the sight of you is the thought of how many self-imposed rules you’ve broken to get to this point — the self-discipline you’ve thrown out the window on your way down to him.

He accepts the invitation, descends upon your wet heat like a man starved, and loops his arms underneath your thighs. Immediately, your thighs tighten around the sides of his head, muffling the groan that slips out of him the second your taste hits his tongue. Just the same, you’ve got him drunk in an instant while he laves his way through folds sweeter than cherry wine.

From under his own lashes, he looks up and sees yours flutter at the sensation of his lips encircling your clit and suckling slowly, deeply.

“Oh, my g-god,” you hiccup before your fingers are in his hair again, nails scratching perfectly along his scalp. “You’re so —”

Wooyoung’s wickedly curved lips are slick in more ways than one, though he doubts you can see them through all those stars in your eyes. You don’t see the switch-up coming, either. Unwilling to let you race too far ahead of him, he scales it back, trading his deep pulls for targeted kitten licks.

“— evil.”

Your frustration rings out with a tortured whine. Wooyoung can’t blame you; he knows he’s cruel for guiding you so close to the edge, right out of the gate, then refusing to send you off of it. But he has to draw this out as long as he can, savor what he can for however long you give him.

And to your credit, you take it well.

You give, too, offering up the moans, whimpers, and sighs he couldn’t have dreamed up correctly if he tried.

Well…

Wooyoung did try. Gave it his best shot, even, but his imagination fell short. He knows that now. The pitch was wrong, the timing was off, and he failed to anticipate just how badly it’d fuck him up to feel you grinding against his tongue. To have your fingers tied off in his hair, refusing to accept anything less than closeness.

That particular chorus swells for the first time when he unwinds his right arm from where it secures your left thigh; and his middle finger slides into your cunt, curls upwards to greet that spongy patch of nerves along your front wall.

Eyes swimming with previously untapped desire, you look so pitifully perfect. Only breaking eye contact to throw your head back, you start to wail, “Wooyoung, I —”

But the rest of that thought must turn to static before you can finish it. Charged silence settles in its place, save for your ragged breathing. All the while, his tongue never lets up on your poor, abused clit, though your arousal already has him coated, leaking down over the knuckle.

A particularly needy tug of his hair seeks what you can’t verbalize.

More.

Closer.

When he adds his ring finger to fuck you further open for him, you can’t keep his name from spilling out of your mouth. Wooyoung starts to sound like a summoning spell; an invocation repeated so desperately that he just might give you what you want.

“W-Wooyoung, please,” you choke out, hips bucking up to chase his mouth. “I’m so close!”

The fact that you’re downright begging — on the brink of tears, no less — goes straight to his head. He lets up for a moment to purr, “Since you asked so nicely…”

The hand he doesn’t have half-buried in your heat grips your right hip, hard, securing you against the granite. It’s for the best, really. You jolt so much when he finally lets you cum that you could’ve knocked him out otherwise.

Not that he’d complain.

When the aftershocks peter out, and you gain back some control of your trembling limbs, you collapse back onto the countertop, chest heaving as your breath struggles to even out. One leg stays put, hinged over his shoulder, the best kind of dead weight; the other pools off the edge of the island, hanging limply.

Before pulling away entirely, Wooyoung presses an open-mouthed kiss to the soft skin of your inner thigh, suckling slightly — just enough to leave a calling card, though he doesn’t want anyone but you to know it’s there.

“You fucking menace.”

Your eyes flutter open and catch the way he’s grinning, the lower half of his face otherwise shining with a mix of spit and slick. With you watching intently, he licks his lips, simpering, “Think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear.”

“Deserved.” You sigh contentedly and close your eyes again for a second, but the blissed-out look on your face doesn’t dissipate.

Wooyoung wonders if you’re holding onto the image of him between your thighs, replaying it behind your lids. The sight of you is going to haunt him — then and now, before and after. Even if your stamina is depleted now, his appetite’s been sated. He can survive off of this moment alone for weeks if necessary.

But you summon the strength to stretch your arms over your head, to moan breathily while you arch your back off the counter and ease the tension in your muscles. Then, in a burst of vitality, you sit upright. Eyes alight, you give him a smile to match.

“Help me down?”

As if he’d say no to a question asked that sweetly.

You wobble when your feet touch the ground again and thank him when he snakes an arm around your waist to steady you. With a nod in the direction of what Wooyoung assumes is your bedroom, you beckon him, “Come with me.”

“That’s been the plan, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at him — another first — and take his hand in yours. Fingers intertwined, you lead and he follows through the adjoining living room towards a door on the far side of the apartment. The pair of you barely cross the threshold into your bedroom before you turn and tug his hand, pulling him into a kiss.

“Do me a favor,” you murmur against his lips.

Wooyoung has no questions about that — the answer is yes, no matter what the favor is — but there is something he’s wondering about: when you open your mouth against his, can you taste yourself on his tongue?

Distracted by that thought, and the way your free hand makes its way to the button of his jeans, he nods. It gives him the opportunity to swallow down the groan that builds in his chest when you squeeze his still-clothed cock.

Your mouth leaves his then, drops to the side of his neck. Something about the light nip of your teeth below his ear makes his resolve start to crumble. It only gets harder when the warmth of your tongue flicks over his skin to soothe the sting. He sounds fucked out already when he sighs, “Anything.”

“Let me repay you for all those drinks you never charged me for.” Between kisses down the length of his neck, you purr, “Not exactly subtle, you know.”

He clenches his jaw to keep it from dropping. “Have I been hustled?”

“Is it hustling if I offer to reimburse you?”

Knowing damn well what it’ll do to him, you flutter your lashes against his skin, forcing him to fight off a shiver. There’s no hiding the rush of heat that follows; he doesn’t need to ask to know that you feel it creeping up his neck. “I’ll make up for it,” you promise. “Atone, and all that.”

Wooyoung reaches up and cups your jaw with his hand; you follow his direction and look up at him with excitement twinkling in your eyes, juxtaposing the deep black in his. “I’m charging interest,” he bites back. “The rates are astronomical.”

“Oh?”

“Oh, indeed. Get on the bed, sweetheart.”

With a light smack on your ass, he sends you on your way. In the few seconds it takes you to skip over to your mattress and jump onto it, he tugs his shirt up and over his head, then tosses it aside. Before unbuckling his jeans and tearing those off, too, he snatches his wallet from the back pocket. More specifically, the condom he’s been keeping within just in case you ever decided to stoop to his level.

You’re a second away from drooling when he makes his way over and stops at the edge of the bed. That kind of hunger is yet another thing he failed to see coming. There’s something insatiable in your eyes now, darkening by the second.

You reach out for the condom, but he pulls his hand back, holds it up where you can’t reach. Frustration makes your eyebrows pinch together. Out of context — if you weren’t naked, wet, and wanting him — he’d likely go out of his way to tell you how fucking cute you look when you’re annoyed.

“Don’t pout at me, sweetheart.” Wooyoung’s warning tone is gravel-lined, sharp to the touch when it hits you. Whether you intend it or not, your breath hitches in tandem with your pupils dilating. “I’ll let you do it, but I have one condition. Consider it a repayment term.”

You tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing with intrigue. “And what’s that?”

“No hands.”

The surprised look he was counting on never comes. He gets sheer determination instead. You pull the packet from between his fingers, rip the foil open with your teeth, and flick the empty wrapper onto your nightstand. Not a second is wasted in you tugging his black briefs down his thighs.

You don’t deal in unpaid debts, either, it seems.

What happens next nearly puts him in an early grave. Wooyoung fucking wishes for a fly on the wall to witness you — someone else to memorialize the finesse you exhibit in working that latex down his length with your mouth alone — because he can’t believe his own eyes. In fact, he has to screw them shut to keep from cumming at the sight of you with his dick down your throat, lips flush to his pelvis.

“My god,” he groans, head dipping backwards. “If that’s how good your fucking mouth feels…”

You give him a second to pull himself together. Then, you wrap your hand around his wrist and pull him. He drops into the space you were occupying just a second ago, and as soon as his back hits the mattress, you steady yourself with your palms on his chest and position yourself over him.

Now, he can’t keep his hands to himself. His fingertips scratch up your thighs, leaving goosebumps along the fastidiously trained muscles underneath his touch. Palms gliding up the curve of your ass, then your waist, then those fucking tits.

“Shit,” you mewl. He lightly pinches your left nipple between his thumb and forefinger, spurring you on to rake your nails over the flesh of his chest. The way he tenses under your touch must embolden you. “Play with me all you want, but I need you inside of me now.”

Wooyoung has no idea where this assertiveness came from, but he’ll be goddamned if he doesn’t give you everything you want and then some. To prove that you’ve earned the lot, you line yourself up and take everything he has.

Somehow, you manage to take his vision, too. The world gets blurry as your heat envelopes him; everything in the periphery blackens until all that’s left is you throwing your head back in pleasure. No other light, no noise beyond the obscene sound of your pussy soaking his length and the collision of your perfect ass against the tops of his thighs.

As strong as you are, Wooyoung knows your orgasm will wipe you out long before your body tires. He sees your eyes start to roll back in your head, even when you put your palms down behind you and lean away from him to perfect the angle.

Not good enough, he decides. He wants to watch your pupils blow when you fall apart.

“C’mere,” he rasps.

Fuck, he’s about to break, too.

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

You push off your hands and move to lean in, but you wind up crumpling against his chest, immediately overwhelmed by the depths of his strokes when you re-enter his gravity. With the proximity perfected, every movement that follows is desperate — animalistic, even. Clinging fingers, sweat slicked bodies swapping searing heat. He lifts his hips to drive himself further into you with every downbeat, sets a pace so punishing that he has you speaking in tongues.

When you cum the second time, the moan that rips through you almost sounds like a sob. It really might be. The droplets on your cheeks are either tears or sweat; one or both would be justified, considering the show you just put on for him.

Shit, how you managed to blow his world to pieces just by walking into his bar, he’ll never understand. All he knows is that when he cums — not long after you — and his entire fucking body goes numb, you’re there on the other side of the cataclysm to kiss him back to life.

Sweet.

When you wake up, you don’t even have a guess as to what time it is. That’s your fault, you know. You didn’t think to connect your phone to its charger prior to falling asleep in a mess of sheets. The numerous alarms you always keep set didn’t go off, obviously, but right now, that’s the least of your worries.

Until your phone has enough juice to power back on, you won’t know if Wooyoung texted you before sneaking out of your apartment.

You’d taken it as a good sign when he asked for your number in a fucked-out haze. Now, you realize, that naivety of yours was operating in full swing, even when the rest of you was down for the count. That’s what one-night-stands are for, you tell yourself. That’s the decision you made.

Uncharacteristically, you’re tempted to spend the rest of your day — however much of it is left — rotting in bed. It’s an urge you’ll give in to, you can already tell; just like the one that got you here in the first place. The only thing stronger than the call of your bed is the grumbling of your stomach, begging for sustenance.

Sighing loudly, you throw your comforter off your lower half and wiggle towards the edge of your bed. Bare feet meet the braided rug below, then unsteady legs do their best to get their bearings. As you ache, you realize that you need to give credit where it’s due:

You’re currently in the best shape of your life, and Wooyoung still managed to fuck the constitution out of you.

You bend slowly to scoop a shirt from your untouched laundry basket, groaning all the while. On its own, it’s long enough to cover your ass, so you don’t bother to dress yourself further — except for the fuzzy slippers waiting next to your bedroom door.

It’s closed, you note when you finally bother to look at it. It wasn’t when you fell into bed with Wooyoung. He probably didn’t want to disturb you on the way out, you figure. This would strike you as thoughtful if it didn’t feel like a chapter ending too soon. Reaching out to reopen it, you tell yourself to be less sentimental.

In the living room, laying eyes on an empty kitchen, you also tell yourself, I told you so. This isn’t a drama, after all. There’s no love interest in your kitchen to cook you an unexpected breakfast.

Pre-made frozen breakfast sandwich it is, then.

You tear open the package with more effort than you should’ve needed to expend, then dump the single-serving lump onto a paper plate. As if on autopilot, you shove the plate into the microwave and smash a few buttons without registering much of it. The quiet hum of the machine nearly lulls you straight back to sleep.

Well, it likely could have.

The metallic rattling up the hall catches your attention, prompting you to step backwards so you can peer over at your front door and confirm that it’s locked. It is. You turn back to your breakfast in progress, and it takes five (5) entire seconds before you realize the issue here.

Keys jingle with more determination, right on cue. You spin around fully this time, eyes wide, to find Wooyoung in your doorway. He holds the door open with his elbow because both his hands are full; and as if that all wasn’t enough, he tries to toe off his shoes without being able to see them over the cardboard to-go tray in his hands.

“Fucking —” he grunts, wobbling.

It must’ve been louder than he intended because he winces immediately. In his moment of panic, his eyes flick over to your bedroom door. Then, when he realizes it’s open, they search for you, blinking in surprise when they find you. He peeps, “Oh.”

As it turns out, his ability to make you lose your words isn’t limited to late hours. The sun is beating through the sliding glass door to your balcony, and you confirm that you’re just as dumbstruck by him in daylight. So, you simply point to the drinks and paper bag he’s holding with your eyebrows pinched in confusion.

“Found that café you go to on Tuesdays,” Wooyoung explains gruffly. His morning voice is every bit as ruinous as you imagined it would be. “The logo on their cups is just a cloud, so it took a lot of wandering to solve that fucking mystery.”

This time, it’s you who peeps. “Oh?”

It’s then that he finally succeeds in getting his shoes off. With his hip, he nudges the door shut; your key ring chimes in the process, having been attached to his belt loop. In a few steps, he sets his burdens down on the kitchen island and looks up at you with a wicked glint in his eye. Apparently, his immediate thought is the same as yours. Simpering, he picks everything back up and makes for your living room’s coffee table instead.

“I’m glad to report that the green shit you drink doesn’t include algae or moss.” He lifts a smoothie from the carrier and holds it out to you, flashing you a smile that makes your knees wobble. “However, I regret to inform you that it does contain vegetables.”

If you try any harder to bite back your idiotic grin, you might lose your lips. “Did you — did you really think there was moss in it?”

He waves his hand dismissively. Notably, he doesn’t say no. That hand then lowers, finger crooked to beckon you closer. You move in, and you try to focus on the moment in front of you, rather than the obscene flashbacks the gesture gives you. The knowing look you expect doesn’t follow, though. Wooyoung simply places your drink in your left hand and your keys in your right.

“Sorry for borrowing those without asking or — well, notifying you in any way, whatsoever.” He grimaces. “I figured I’d be gone for a minute, and I didn’t want someone to waltz through your unlocked door and wake you up.”

“Was burglary on that list of concerns, or is sleep truly your main priority?”

At this, he grins like an idiot. “You’re getting better at that, you know.”

The look on your face must convey your confusion.

“I like the version of you that doesn’t pull punches,” he continues, sounding almost embarrassed to admit something about himself.

You take a move from his playbook and slide your finger through his belt loop, tugging him forward until he’s squarely within kissing distance. “This Wooyoung?” You murmur, “The one who got up early to hunt down a smoothie he’s disgusted by? Objectively likable.”

He rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t distract from the pink tint overtaking his cheeks. “I don’t know about that.”

You kiss him before he can offer to agree to disagree. And when you finally pull back, you nod firmly. “He might be sweet enough for me.”

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

ateez masterlist. multi masterlist. navigation.

tagging: @jihopesjoint @bahng-chrizz @sourkimchi @variety-is-the-joy-of-life @notevenheretbh1 @borabitsch @bubbly-moon (also paging @moni-logues because i feel like woo is our sister wife, lmfao.)

#ateez #wooyoung #jung wooyoung #wooyoung x reader #wooyoung smut #ateez smut #ateez x reader #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #wooyoung fanfic #wooyoung fic #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung scenarios #jade writes #kvanity #re: whiskey neat

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physalian · 7 months

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What No one Tells You about Writing Fantasy, #2!

I did this list about 7 annoyances about fantasy, but I write in this genre for a reason! Fantasy knows no bounds, it can encompass all other genres within it. You can write a fantastical murder mystery, fantasy horror, fantasy romance, political drama, slice-of-life, comedy, whatever you’d like!

Whether it’s urban or high fantasy, supernatural or scientific, here’s seven great benefits of writing in this genre:

1. No modern means of communication

Unless you’re writing a world with phones or phone-adjacent devices. Phones and instant communication seriously inhibits the plausibility of dramatic irony and tension when you have to keep coming up with reasons to keep your characters from calling or texting each other everything they know. It’s exhausting, I tell you, and such a relief when phones aren’t a factor.

With that said, without phones, you have complete freedom to design your own magical channels of supernatural FaceTime, as weird and zany as you want. But without instant connections? Your character who knew too much can’t pass on the intel before they die. Your hero team can’t call for backup in their darkest hour. Otherwise easily preventable tragedies and deadly miscommunications are now very real.

2. The Monster Allegory

Fantasy and sci-fi tend to overlap more than they’re set apart, and in that overlap sits the monster allegory. Everything from werewolves to vampires to witches, reapers, demons, angels, goblins, trolls, wraiths, fairies, mermaids, ghosts, to Eldritch horrors and your classic Hollywood cast of mummies, creatures from the black lagoon, and Frankenstein.

Most of the time, the monsters aren’t just monsters, they represent a monstrous aspect of society the author wants to challenge and caricaturize in a fun and entertaining way. Or, the monsters are the good guys and the humans are the real terrors. Or, you’ve got two kinds of monsters to allegory two human sides. Sometimes they represent metaphorical demons, like vampires often representing addiction and werewolves repressed identities.

What all of this boils down to is the hyperbolic nature of science fantasy that allows you to go over-the-top with your metaphor and allegory in a way that a book grounded in reality just can’t.

3. Magic Systems!

Do you love world building? Do you love filling pages upon pages with your cool and unique set of superpowers you want your characters to have? Do you dream about your fight scenes and dramatic slow-mo shots?

Then Fantasy is for you!

There are zero limits to how you want to define your magic system. You can go classic with the familiar archetypes of elemental magic, wizards, sorcerers, and witches. Or you can step off the beaten path and design a whole new funky system of power sets. Best part? Your readers will have an awesome time imagining themselves with those powers, and debating endlessly about how it works.

4. Real-World Politics, who?

Amazon’s Rings of Power was twice-doomed when they only got the rights to adapt the appendices of The Silmarillion and when they decided to inject current political problems into a timeless story written purposefully to be divorced from those politics. You *can* write about human politics, but in fantasy, you don’t have to. You *can* interpret Lord of the Rings to be an allegory about the World Wars, but no matter how hard you argue, it wasn’t written with that intent.

Which means: Even if your story is set in the reality-adjacent fantasy version of 1543, you are free from the following: Racism, homophobia, sexism, religious bigotry, mental health bigotry, gender norms, anti-feminism, toxic masculinity, and more. “But that’s how it was-”

Nope. This is fantasy. You built this world, you decided to keep in the discrimination. Or… You can fill your fantasy world with a rainbow of gays, POCs in power, women in power, men unafraid to be compassionate and caring, a religion that doesn’t foster hate and division, the list goes on. You. Are. Free.

5. Nothing is too “unrealistic”

Both that you will always have people whining about how X would never happen so write the book you want to read, but also because fantasy is fake. Fairies aren’t real. Mermaids aren’t real. There are no rules for how they must be written and that’s how we have so much variety with so much room for interpretation by so many creators. Twilight made how much money writing about vampires that sparkle like diamonds in sunlight and crack like marble?

This is fantasy, it’s supposed to be unrealistic. Yes, your plot should make sense, but don’t be afraid to get weird. Write at least some of your story dependant on those fantasy elements. Write a story that can’t just be told in the real world minus the spectacle. Don’t be afraid to be sincerely fantastical and weird. People love weird. People love loving weird.

6. You are in complete control

But you do still need to research, unfortunately. Unless this is urban fantasy that depends at least a little on the human world, yours is completely your own to govern like a god tweezing weeds from their garden. You get to design your own geography and weather patterns and seasons. Your own countries and kingdoms and politicians. Your epic pre-canon fantasy war and the stakes that it was fought over. Your species, races, and ethnicities.

It’s a shame that a movie like Avatar (2009) set out to be this wholly unique take on aliens with music completely divorced from earthly bonds, new languages and a visually and culturally distinct alien species… and ended up a largely generic blue Pocahontas in space. It forgot that it was fantasy and didn’t go weird enough. They have horses, monkeys, wolves, rhinos, and deer just re-skinned with some extra limbs and colors. It’s pretty but it’s so, so shallow.

It could have become a cult classic like many a positively *weird* 80s off-beat fantasies, and now it just… exists. It makes a whole lot of money but its impact on the cultural zeitgeist is negligible. I’m the only person I know that can name every major character in the movie, and I’m no Avatar obsessor. They had complete creative control, and this is what they did with it. Don’t be Avatar. Take your creative freedom and run.

7. Even if it has been done before, do it again

You can say this about any genre, particularly romance, but fantasy and sci-fi, by the gatekeep-y nature of their fans, can be a lot less forgiving when it comes to claims of “unoriginality”. No one hates Star Wars more than Star Wars fans. Fans of these genres can get… concerningly attached to their favorite stories (mostly because the people who like them had only their fictional heroes to protect them from very real bullies).

But Game of Thrones exists because the author likes Lord of the Rings and went “yes, but what if it was an R-rated parade of misery?” Dungeons and Dragons exists because people wanted to roleplay in an LotR-esque world. Legolas and Gimli single-handedly defined what a badass elf and dwarf looks like in high fantasy. And people still gobble up media ripping shamelessly, or even good-naturedly, from this one story.

So on my other list, I argued that the sum of your parts is still original, even if the components aren’t. On this list, I implore you this: It’s not stealing or appropriating to write another Legolas if you love Legolas. Everyone loves Legolas. How many generic buff action heroes do we have and love? How many Hallmark romances tread the same predictable path? Who gives a damn if it’s unoriginal? Just make it entertaining and have something fresh to say in the end (or don’t, that’s fine too), and people will read it.

And when people say “Oh, you mean like Legolas”, take it as a compliment, not an insult. Yes, exactly like Legolas. Here’s my new elf because I adore this other book, now watch him go on a new adventure that I wrote for him.

#writing advice #writing resources #writing tips #writing tools #writing a book #fantasy #scifi #writeblr #writing #what no one tells you about writing

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silverwarewolf · 3 months

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DUNGEON MESHI EPISODE 24 THOUGHTS

Oh, I had asked to see what the party's thoughts regarding the changeling situation were, especially when it came to their lifespans, but I didn't think it would turn out like this!

GOOD FUCKING JOB, CHILCHUCK. YOU'VE TRAUMATIZED MARCILLE EVEN FURTHER. Oh but I do so love the horrors of this situation of theirs. Marcille babygirl I would like to hug you and have a nice chat.

Anywya, on we go to think about Falin and any solutions that might help us here. Which is great! I love how much foreshadowing there is (in terms of what I've been vaguely told about the manga).

Laios Touden's problem solving skills, everyone.

That's honestly the SICKEST weapon design, I'm so on board with you Laios. This could be Kensuke's Halloween makeover. BUT DONT JUST TAKE THOSE MUSHROOMS WITH YOU OH MY GOD

... was this the opening sequence foreshadowing everyone was freaking out about? was that it? (don't actually tell me, though. if it was it, say yes. if it wasn't, don't say anything)

no comment here I just love them.

I just will never get used to elfshi's hands being Like That. But it's also kinda nice to see him and Izutsumi working along so nicely! Like, don't even get me started on how Izu is presented as the pickiest eater of the party (Marcille has been dethroned severely) and usually you'd see that presented as a Hassle, but here in DM, Senshi doesn't even bat an eye. He knows and respects Izutsumi's tastes and preferences and works his meals out around it! That's such a based thing for him to do. <3

This is a renaissance painting. (I love it when they adapt Ryoko Kui's visual gags and I LOVE when she does zoomed in faces like this. Truly one of the artists ever)

I did not have "Laios gets Pissed On" on my bingo card but every day I grow more and more convinced that the animators KNOW what they're doing and - OH MY GOD IS THAT SENSHI'S DWUSSY. ELFSHI ALTERNATIVE TO PANTY SHOT.

Ah, yes, Izutsumi sprawls all over them when sleeping, we been knew, again it's a little unexpected to see it front and center but I guess it works to demonstrate them returning to - THAT WAS LAIOS??? AND CHILCHUCK IS JUST LIFTING HIS LEG LIKE THAT?? OKAY THEN. SURE.

(and then there's a few more seconds of laiosfoot and laios bedhead)

BUT HEY THEY'RE BACK TO NORMAL

1) Yep, they're back to normal.

2) Laios I love you and I love Gothsuke but someone needs to be careful about biohazards and it's not going to be you.

3) Add this to the "Marcille Donato gets threateningly close to you in three steps" folder.

4) Truly only they can match each other's freak. When the NECROMANCER is telling you not to do something, don't do it! I know last time you smuggled a "normal" sword, it turned out to be useful, but I'm sure that's not the case here!

5) Poor Laios tho. I'll learn to blacksmith just to give you a cool sword. <3

I'm so glad they kept this. One of the silliest touden siblings moments. 10/10 no notes. Also, Falin is never beating the blunt force trauma allegations.

IS THAT CHILCHUCK'S WIFE. ARE YOU - MA'AM. HELLO?

"Why aren't you a twink like I thought you'd be?!" gets adapted! (I'm pretty sure that's the scene meant to be here, anyways)

I get it, girl.

Oh dear, they're going to eat Falin. And SENSHI was the one to suggest it! For a guy who was just fighting the doubts of accidental cannibalism a week ago, you're taking bold steps forward.

(I do love how it mirrors Laios' kindness back then, in truth. Even if it's an idea so shocking and dire at first, it comes from a place of reason and logic and love)

Marcille "I said I wanted to eat her OUT, not eat HER" Donato Izutsumi "That's going to taste gross as fuck" Izutsumi Chilchuck "If it brings her back..." Tims Laios Touden, the man with a thousand things on his head right now, two of which I reckon are "I don't want to eat my sister" and "Dragon-Chicken... what might it taste like?"

Yes, well. Valid as your concerns are, Laios, because how the fuck would five people eat THAT much meat, you can't just ramble on about what dishes you're going to make out of your sister.

(...I get it, though. I mean if you're going to eat, might as well make it good, right? I know no one wants to grill one of Faligon's ribs but I'll go ahead and say it would be worse to tell them to eat her raw)

FUCK! we DID lose those scenes about the twin bell that toshiro kept!! forever sad about that.

oh my godddd they're going back into the dungeonnn we're going to reunite with themmm

I know they're really fucking competent, I mean, Namari and Toshiro are already described as pretty formidable warriors (and we've seen it), and Kabru is... admittedly much more geared to fight humans but he's a decent fighter either way. And a good leader!

Speaking of, where the fuck is everyone else.

I know they're meant to be scary (and I suppose they are! If we have the reference that, firstly, marcille is an excellent spellcaster so these elves could be just as good in their own areas of expertise, yes?, and secondly, the canaries are Well Known)

... plus, Namari, Toshiro and Kabru are wary of them. Namari, Toshiro and Kabru are wary of them.

BUT damn it Lycion, I need to- (gets dragged off stage)

Anyway, while we wait for the next season (WHICH HAS BEEN GREENLIT! WOHOO!), have these wonderful images of chicken falin being a cathedral painting (...if cathedrals ever added dragons, i guess) and my beloveds, who have finally returned!

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theemporium · 11 months

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“You’re shitting me, right?”

“Nope.”

“Max—”

“What?”

“You have your own jet. How the fuck are you not a part of the mile high club?”

Max frowned a little before shrugging. “It isn’t exactly my priority when I’m on a plane, schat.”

There were many perks you learnt that existed as a Formula One driver after you found yourself in a relationship with two of the best drivers in the world. From invitations to countless exclusive events to brand deals with high-end designers, from travelling the world for their job to having a comfy paycheck to be the best of the best. It was a whole new world your boyfriends introduced you to, and it never failed to make you head spin no matter how long you had been dating them.

But the materialistic perks were some of the easiest to spot—the prime example being the fact Max had his own jet that he travelled in when he flew around the world for the different races.

It had been another one of those races that you were currently flying out to. It had just been the three of you for the long haul flight and the boys had been trying everything in their power to stay awake for a few more hours so they wouldn’t fall victim to horrendous jet lag by the time they landed.

You had decided to try passing some time with games. But UNO was quickly abandoned when Lando kept trying to wind Max up with ‘+4’ cards. And ‘truth or dare’ was a bit pointless when you were stuck in the sky. You didn’t really want to start a full ass game of Monopoly (or question why in loving fuck one of the boys brought it in the first place), otherwise you’d be fast asleep before either of them. And every round of ‘two truths and a lie’ lasted less than a few seconds because you knew each other well.

You were left with a game of ‘never have I ever’ but it slowly stopped being a game, and somehow became some weird competition between the boys to try to outdo one another. Which, to be fair, was very amusing for you to watch.

Until Max had dropped the bomb on you and Lando that he had never had sex on a plane. Ever.

“But,” you paused before gesturing to the plane around you. “You have the perfect setting!”

“The setting is always a plane,” Max stated bluntly.

“Yeah but usually you’re both locked in a little bathroom, trying to be quiet and not break anything because you’re literally fucking in a box,” Lando jumped in.

Max shot him a look.

“Hey, just talking from experience,” Lando said as he lifted his hands.

“But you have the whole fucking jet to yourself,” you continued. “You could fuck as much as you please! In any position you want!”

He raised his brows in amusement. “Thought about it a lot?”

“Yes,” you replied without a moment of hesitation. “You don’t think about fucking us on a plane?”

“It isn’t the first place my mind goes to,” Max confessed with a shrug.

Lando’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though he was lost in thought. “Do you wanna fuck us on a plane?”

Max paused. “Like right now?”

“We need to preoccupy ourselves,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders, trying to bite back the grin that was growing on his lips. “I can think of a few things we could do.”

Your grin matched his, a glint of mischief in your eyes. “What do you say, baby? Wanna join the club?”

“We’ll teach you the ropes,” Lando added teasingly.

Ten minutes. The teasing and the taunting and the goading lasted all of ten minutes before Max had you both wrapped around his finger. Because despite your big mouths and all your talk, it took one glance and a hand tugging your hair back before you were putty in Max’s hands, ready to comply and obey with whatever he wanted because he always seemed to be in control.

“Is this what you wanted, schat?” Max groaned as he gripped your hips, bouncing you back on his dick at the speed he desired. His cock was deep inside you, pressing against the spot that made you squirm and moan—though your mouth was otherwise preoccupied. “Wanted me to fuck you on my private jet? Wanted to show my staff what a fucking slut the two of you are?”

“Shit,” Lando whined, his hands tugging on his curls as his cock hit the back of your throat. “Max—”

“Hold it,” Max gritted out, his hands tightening on your waist as his chest heaved with soft pants. “Did I say you could come?”

“But—” Lando started, only to be cut off by his own moans.

“I said no,” Max huffed out with a shake of his head, his chin tucked into his chest as he watched the way your greedy pussy took his cock with such ease. The debauched noises echoing through the cabin only seemed to egg him on further. “Don’t be a fucking brat.”

“Please,” Lando cried, his hips bucking up into your mouth as you gagged and choked.

“Both of you are so fucking impatient,” Max grumbled as he squeezed the fat of your ass. “So quick to brag and cry. And now look at you. Two fucking whores.”

“Just for you,” Lando muttered out breathlessly.

“Of course you are. All mine. All fucking mine.” Max groaned, his voice low and rough as he felt a rush of pleasure run down his spine. “And mine to fucking control. You come when I say you come, and I don’t think either of you deserve it yet.”

You whined, the sound muffled and pathetic with Lando’s cock down your throat, but it was enough to warrant a slap to your ass.

“Careful, schat. Or I won’t let you come until the plane lands.”

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deadbeat-motel · 8 months

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ᗩᑎGEᒪ ᗪᑌᔕT ᖇEᗪEᔕIGᑎ

Me going talky-talky below the cut

I wanted to redesign this guy the most because of so many issues I have with his actual design, namely:

The suit is a travesty.... for both his background as a hypersexual porn actor and a previous mafia member. It does not read well as a good design for an Italian mobster of the 1920s. Do you really not think he would rock a pinstripe? I mean come on, those three horizontal lines on his suit look really tacky to me. You should've taken that pinstripe suit from Sir Pentious and given it to him instead. and not only that but it doesn't even read well as a porn actor who has no qualms about being sexualized and pretty much even revels in it. why does the suit basically cover him up like a conservative politician? come on, let him show off a bit more.

WHY A BOWTIE??? WHY??? A SIMPLE GOOGLE SEARCH WILL SHOW YOU THAT A NECKTIE WAS MORE IN FASHION DURING THAT TIME RATHER THAN A BOWTIE. The bowtie was something that pissed me off so much about the design.

He's not a very good spider design. the only thing about him that looks remotely spider-like is that he has those eye dots under the eyes and the many limbs.... nothing else. not the very large abdomen or the actual 4 pairs of limbs a spider is supposed to have. Not even a web pattern on him like Spiderman who embodies "spider" more than him.

YOU TOOK THE FLOOF OFF OF HIM??? THE ICONIC FLOOF???? unacceptable. In retaliation, I'm giving it back bigger than ever you coward!

Anyways, here's the thought process I went through with this design:

He needed to embody his Mafia/porn addict themes through his clothing so I went with an outfit that looks like a slutty Halloween costume of a mobster. Plus it would have also differentiated him from his family who most likely would've had a stronger Mafia vibe than he did.

Gave him a tiny little hat too because i thought it looked cute.

I remember hearing that Angel Dust's most iconic part was his head's unusual shape, so I decided to keep it on him but tweaked it a little bit with his hair covering the other half of his face. (This was for some kind of lore reason, maybe he's insecure about his heterochromia, That's where he was shot and has an X over it, or his eyes are malformed on that side, still thinking about it)

Originally was going to have matching black gloves for his arms too but then it was harder to see what was his arm or leg so I let him have nothing instead to keep the pairs of limbs separated

Gave him some hoop rings too because why not let a bad bitch have one?

I've seen necktie cat collars go around earlier and thought it would fit well for Angel Dust considering I didn't give him a shirt and that i took off his choker as well.

Aside from a MASSIVE flooff, I also gave him a massive spider "butt" with the missing pair of limbs. I decided to make it legs because honestly, It's much harder to think of how he would emote naturally with 6 arms. Plus it was interesting to think about how a 4 legged bipedal would work. Immediately my first thought went to Squidward Tentacles from both the show and the musical but then it wouldn't work because of the complexity of the legs. It's main purpose now is to both hold up the large spider "butt" and be his self-defense when being approached from behind.

Originally was going to have those big ass claw things on his mouth (I'm most likely wrong but the 'chelicerae' thing?) but thought it would clutter the design too much and because there was a big possibility that Val probably ripped them off of him when he had bitten once, if not multiple times, in self-defense.)

I'll probably talk about him more when he pops up in an episode I'm going to go in-depth about or give him his own dedicated rant about how Vivziepop treated his story.

#vivziepop critical #hazbin hotel criticism #hazbin hotel critical #hazbin hotel redesign #deadbeat motel redesign #deadbeat motel rewrite

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scourgeofmyownbrain · 3 months

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Ladies and Gentlemen, Bitches and Bastards, Witches and Wizards, Mothers and Fuckers. Esteemed robot enjoyers, I present to you a semi-accurate height comparison of Bumblebee across the multiverse (as of July 2024). This really helps visualize the truly staggering differences between universes, at least height-wise. Also, three of these characters are Canonically the Same Guy; guess which ones.

I spent way too much time on the chart in the back it's not even funny. I will probably make more height charts for more TF characters and universes in the future. Don't expect it soon though, because when I make these, I am fueled by pure I-Got-Bored-At-Work-And-I-Have-Decided-To-Fool-Around-With-Robot-PNGs, and that fuel supply is inconsistent at best.

Hey Fun Fact, Did you know that Generation 1 Optimus Prime is around 19 Feet Tall? Bet some of you already knew that. I have no ulterior motives for bringing this fact up, what are you talking about.

My height explanations are below the cut, because you couldn't shut me up if you tried.

In an order:

Gen 1 - ~10 feet (the wiki says greater than 3 meters so I rounded up to the first whole number because round)

Netflix Cybertron Trilogy - ~10 feet (He looks identical to Gen 1 so... the reason his photo looks weird is because I couldn't find a good full body photo with him standing straight up facing the camera so I put two images together to make the worst looking photoshop job you have ever seen)

Earth Spark - 10 feet (There is no confirmed height yet but using a screen shot of him standing in front of a barn door I was able to make a reasonable guess.)

Animated - 12 feet (I have no genuine source for this, I think this info is just someone's guesstimate, but it seems reasonable. He's a tiny two door mini car, how big could he be)

New Live Action - 15 feet (The wiki hath declared. Also do we have a name for this universe because we need one I don't want to keep saying like 6 words to differentiate this one from bayverse)

Bayverse V1 - 16 feet (This is like the first 3 movies minimum, I don't remember when he hits his growth spurt. also wiki my love)

Cyberverse - 18 feet (I'm gonna be honest, the only info we have is from a really shitty screen shot of a magazine. SO if any one has a copy of this book from the video below, a high quality scan would be greatly appreciated and I will kiss the ground you walk upon. Yes I found the video where the screen shot comes from leave me alone)

Bayverse V2 - 18 feet (movie 4-5 I can't remember which one, I'm not re-looking this up. I fucking love the bayverse tho, this is the only universe with concrete and consistent this-character-is-this-height info)

Aligned Cont. WF/FOC - 20 feet (video game info screens you god send, kiss me sweetly)

Aligned Cont. TFP/RID15 - 21 feet (I do not know exactly where these numbers were found, but I fully fucking believe them. Just by looking at these characters on the show I can verify these numbers in my mind. They made specifically this universe to be full of freakishly tall robots for some fucking reason.)

And for any one who doesn't know, the three tallest are the same guy. Like the 20 feet tall one and the 21 feet tall ones, same guy. The ones in three wildly different art styles and designs. Let that sink in...

I fucking hate the aligned continuity why is that one my favorite.

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agarthanguide · 4 months

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Forgive me if you’ve answered this already, but what is the timeline you work with for the CR character art? Do you do them all at once, or one at a time? I saw on the Dorian ask you mentioned the deliberation started long enough ago that Robbie didn’t know his brother died. Did you know they were going to a cold location? Or were the outfits designed for any weather? If you were to design their winter outfits now, would you do it any differently?

Your art is very cool! No pressure to answer all/any of these :)

Timeline varies WILDLY. The very first round, back before Bells Hells even premiered, was like 4 months out. But that took a lot more effort. Messing around and zeroing in on a thing. I can turn a character around in a week, as long as that character isn't that important to anyone. Like I know all guests love their characters, but Erika Ishii's first round took like three days (and then I heard about Yu, which took two weeks). Bordor scared the shit out of me because it was so effortless that I was worried that I either missed something or didn't know something.

I start them all at once, within reason. It's really important to get final designs (pre-rendered) to Ian, the mini painter. So one tries to work them in waves. Start as soon as you get the first brief, and then don't get too stuck on anyone. Try to keep a wide open mind so you don't accidentally railroad yourself. I have a tendency to freeze up at the render stage, because it requires a drastic change of style. So I will have to spend a day relearning how to color.

So yeah- no one told me they were going to a cold climate. They try to tell me what I need to know, but "need to know" is different for everyone. I've gotten clips of descriptions of what they are wearing, before, but generally it's just whatever they tell me directly! And no, I don't think I'd change anything too much if I knew they were going to Aeor. I enjoy a Seasonal Design as much as anyone, but only for like a one-shot (I'd love to do a holiday one shot with everyone in swim gear or christmas sweaters or whatever). But if they are going to be playing the main game in an outfit, I'd rather that outfit be iconic than specific.

Check out some Dorian gear concepts!

#my art #critical role #asks

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assumptionprime · 5 months

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I need to rant about the Fallout show

Because this is the person I am. Full spoilers, so I’m putting it behind a Keep Reading:

I’m a huge sucker for Fallout (yes even 3&4). And I went into the Fallout show with some… trepidation. Amazon has been a mixed bag on adaptations, we could have been blessed with a Good Omens, or cursed by a Rings of Power. But early buzz and reviews seemed positive, so I slammed the whole thing in one night with my spouse (we were staying at my in-laws house and they have Prime. Time was a factor.)

And y’know? I was really enjoying it! The characters were fun, the plot was engaging enough, and the costumes and visual design were extremely on point. There were some minor lore quibbles to be had: Ghouls needing some kind of medicine to not go feral. Really, more Enclave holdouts? Timeline and date whoopsies. Wait are they in California? Where the hell is the NCR?

I made a face at Shady Sands being bombed and the NCR collapsing. But I wasn’t completely out of the story. Based on what I had seen so far, I thought it was building to a reveal that the Brotherhood had done it. That the more zealous turn they took in Fallout 4, which has clearly carried to how they are portrayed in the show, lead them to bombing the NCR. War never changes, as they say. Maximus even says when asked what happened to Shady Sands: “The same thing that always happens.” Yeah, it leans into Bethesda’s weird desire to keep the Fallout world in a state of perpetual wastelands full of raiders and no civilization, but it wasn’t so terrible that I couldn’t still enjoy the show.

But then.

BUT THEN.

Episode 8, and the reveal of Vault-Tec apparently being the ones who dropped the first bomb in the Great War.

I was surprised to hear that some fans have apparently been debating over who fired first? Some even asked Tim Cain about it?

That’s really odd to me because, in the games, there is already a pretty definitive answer to which side sparked the Great War:

Who fucking cares?

The world ended. What does it matter who shot first?

There is no China, no United States, no communists or capitalists left to fight about it.

It's a powerful little bit of lore.

For all the posturing, all the promises from each nation that their way is the true way, all the nationalism, the militarism, and blind loyalty to flags over humanity, they both lost. Everyone lost. All that remains of the ideologies and nations that were so important to the people of 2077 is faint echoes over vast expanses of radioactive ash.

Who started the end?

No one knows. No one cares.

It only matters that their conflict was so bitter, so all-consuming, that one of them dropped their bombs, and the other dropped theirs in return.

The truest legacy of the old world is the devastation left by their final, most horrific war.

Can we do better?

Then the show says "Nah, Vault-Tec did it. It's not a commentary on human nature and the futility of self-destructive conflict, it was actually these guys, these mustache twirling villains huddled in a darkened room literally plotting to end the whole world so they can rule what's left."

And I can see the attempt to make this a critique of capitalism. I actually paused the show to praise a bit of writing when Coop is talking with Charlie before the war, when Charlie tells him that the “cattle ranchers are in charge” to illustrate how capitalism and corporations hold too much sway over the government, it felt very in line with how in New Vegas one of the recurring critiques of the NCR is that all the real power is in the hands of the “brahmin barons.” Nice parallel, spot on!

But “we’ll set off total thermonuclear war so we can rule the ashes and have a True Monopoly” isn’t capitalism. It’s just dumb “we’re the baddies” writing.

And then Shady Sands was also Vault-Tec?! Forget any meaning in the NCR falling to the same corruption and/or factional fighting that consumed the old world, they were literally just bombed by the evil shadow conspiracy that apparently also killed the old world. Hank gives this speech about factions fighting and the futility of it all while we see the Brotherhood fighting Moldaver’s NCR remnant, and like, no! You can’t say that when you’ve made it so neither the old world or the NCR fell to war with another faction! It was you! You and your band of cryogenic supervillains!

I don't care that they changed it. Timelines and dates and little retcons don’t bother me all that much. I care that they changed it to something so much worse.

#fallout #fallout tv show #fallout spoilers #nerdy rant about shit that doesn't actually matter but has been stewing in my head for a week now

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mmelete · 9 days

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Ranking the LU Links on Social Media

Wild and Hyrule. Wild would be a a YouTube vlogger. Hyrule is his usual guest and they explore abandoned hospitals/schools. nobody knows how they’re still alive, but hey, they’re making bank so—-8/10

(Wild also has a cooking channel that Hyrule is notoriously banned from.)

Four. I want to say that Four does video essays about random topics, never really shows his face and gains thousands of followers. Sometimes, you can really tell which Color created the video (Blue is notoriously known for hating on badly done smithing techniques and Vio slanders every YA romance book known to mankind). Also has an ASMR channel (fire crackling and 2800 hour loop of metal pipe sounds). 8/10

Time wouldn’t know how to upload a video erm ugh uh I mean, Time would def just video silly clips of his animals or pretty scenery and upload it. Not really one for the views, just for vibes. 4/10 (the video quality is grainier than sand)

Speaking of silly animals…Twilight either just post little snippets of his goats or he’d totally have a channel dedicated to his strangely very intelligent, very strong “husky”…and if Twilight and the “husky” have never been seen in the same room together, well, that’s their problem…5/10

Wind. Girl vs. Boy challenges and trick shots. Occasionally streams a Minecraft SMP. Has over one million subscribers. Need I say more. 7/10

Sky. ASMR and Woodcarving tips galore. Sun runs the social media behind the scenes. Has a bunch of random tips and tricks for very niche things, but he’s super chill. The Bob Ross of Everything but Painting. 10/10

Legend. There is absolutely no way that you will convince me that Legend DOESN’T do fashion/cosplaying stuff. Makeup tutorials, design reviews and color palette challenges…Warriors is his usual guest and the fans LOVE their snappy interactions. 9/10

Warriors. Is a model on the side but only really does YT for his friends. Part of me wants to believe he’ll do some makeup tutorials, but I have a gut feeling this man has a whole channel dedicated to hair care and sewing/knitting. Artemis found his channel one time and that’s why Warriors joined LU and went through Dink’s portal /jk. 5/10

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hothammies · 6 months

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mad max, the party's zoomer - apoc au character details under the cut!

---

max's role in the party:

a runner - fast and quiet, tends to be the one who makes out with the most supplies

mechanic - knows best about cars and is one of the party's designated drivers (the other being mike)

medic - not as skilled with plants and medicine like will, but is good with first aid and physical treatment!

thief - who the party sends out if they need to "borrow" from other groups (second nature to her)

skills + hobbies:

incredible with melee weapons and hand-to-hand combat -> everything she knows was taught to her by billy

decent shot, but prefers using melee way more!

stealthy, like a ninja - her and el are the quietest in the party! max's fighting style is much more brawler-like despite this

good with card games (likes poker, speed and BS) -> likes to play them with the party a lot, but in particular with dustin and lucas

skateboards whenever she can -> her favorite thing to do next to driving!

really loves listening to music (fave artists are madonna, taylor swift and destiny's child) -> likes having el or will in shotgun so they can listen together!

quirks / fun facts:

whenever dustin goes to bed, max takes his current handheld and tries to beat his high score on whatever retro game he's currently playing (dustin does not know its max who's actively beating his ass on dig dug and tetris)

she took billy's jacket and baseball bat and made them her own - very complicated relationship with him and her upbringing with her stepbro made her very skeptical and suspicious of others (especially the party when she first met them)

when she steals things, she tries to keep the party in mind when grabbing extra :')

--- other notes: ladies and gentlemen, our newest addition - maxine! i'll admit, the two characters i think i'm most shoddy on for their characterizations are dustin and max. since max's story in my au is so heavily tied to her issues with trusting people again (specifically men) and family, i'm scared that it will make her character intrinsically tied to relationships instead of having her own character. i'll try my very best for it not to be that way, of course!

for now, she's how i imagine her in the show - she's still a cheeky, sarcastic, stubborn and awesome tomboy with insurmountable trust and distance issues, and i love her for that! the circumstances that drew her to the party are currently a secret, but i will establish now that billy is tied to her storyline and how the party meets her for the first time - while billy's an interesting character in his own right, i straight up don't like him :P so i'm warning people now that billy's more a plot device for max's arc and i probably won't be diving incredibly deep into his character. this is a party centric au after all!

when i was thinking of max's character, i was trying to keep the things she liked in mind and why she was so cool in the first place! ofc, she had to skateboard, even if it was only a little, and she's honestly just great at games in general (to dustin's dismay).

her upbringing in canon and the way she acts is pure "survival instinct" behavior. she knows first aid, she knows how to drive, she escapes vecna, she's incredibly independent! she's a fighter, through and through. she's also not really one to hesitate often to be hands on, and i can see it in the way she acted seasons 2-4 :')

lucas is almost done - maybe a few days give or take!

#max in a tanktop covered in blood she is everything the lesbian in me swooned just a bit #max mayfield #lumax #stranger things #stranger things fanart #st apoc au #sammi's art

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roseghoul26 · 7 months

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Part 2

Arthur Morgan x f!Reader

"'Do you love me?' You asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Arthur nodded, gazing at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

'Then say it. I promise you, nothing bad is gonna come from it.'"

Synopsis: A retelling of the mission "Blessed are the Peacemakers", where instead of Arthur getting kiddnapped, it's you.

Tags: fluff, friends to lovers, eventual smut, smut, torture, mentions of sexual assault, no actual SA, dutch is father figure, so is hosea, arthur morgan deserves everything, fem reader, afab!reader, she/her pronouns used for reader, not beta read

Author's Note: this was meant to be a short one shot lmao i got so carried away with this

part 1 ❉ part 2 ❉ part 3 ❉ part 4

For what felt like the millionth time over the past few days, Arthur glanced beside him, expecting to see you riding beside him, the sunlight illuminating your face in a way that took his breath away. And, for the millionth time, it was still only Charles, who had joined him on his search for you over the past days.

After you failed to show at the designated meeting spot after the negotiations, he had to practically be dragged to camp by the other men. “She’ll be fine,” Dutch had said. “You know how she gets sometimes. She’s probably out helping some stranger on the side of the road. She’ll be back before you know it.”

Deep down, he knew something was wrong, but he still allowed himself to be led back, keeping an eye out for you or your horse. After waiting in camp for an hour or two, he decided enough was enough, speeding out before anyone could stop him. He knew you could handle yourself, but something about the whole situation felt wrong. You were never gone for this long without letting him or someone else in camp know.

It only took a few minutes of fast riding before he returned to the meeting spot, climbing the hill to where you had perched. With a keen eye, he scanned over the area, nothing standing out to him except a small splatter of mysterious liquid a few feet away, barely visible in the dirt.

Stepping closer, his suspicion was correct, causing bile to creep up his throat.

It was blood. More specifically, your blood, something he never wanted to see.

Crouching down, he took in the surrounding area. A path cut through the dusty ground, like something was dragged through it, before stopping at a set of hoofprints, receding down the hill with another set in tow, like the other horse was being led.

All Arthur could hear was his heartbeat anxiously pounding as he remounted, taking off down the hill, following the barely visible tracks as best he could. He managed to follow about a mile, nearly reaching Valentine, before other hoofprints intertwined with the track he was following, making it impossible to continue following.

“Shit,” Arthur cursed, scrubbing his face with his hand as he figured out what to do. If you had been kidnapped, which was apparent, then someone had to have seen something in town. You’d have been slung over the rump of the horse, which he figured someone might remember if they saw.

It was about two hours later when he left town, having gotten a lead from some of the residents about someone carrying someone through town, heading southwest toward Strawberry. The sun had long since set, and as he rode back to Clemens Point, he was lost in his thoughts.

He had to finally admit to himself that the things he felt for you went beyond a normal friendship. Friends don’t wonder what it would be like to hold you in the night. Friends don’t wonder how your lips would feel, how your hands would feel, how your body would feel. Friends sure as hell don’t lie awake at night fantasizing about you, then be too embarrassed to meet your eye in the morning.

Your compassion towards him throughout the years was something he cherished, the way your face lit up when you saw him, or the way you held him when he confided in you about his troubles. Every moment with you filled something in his chest that he didn’t realize was empty.

He hasn’t felt something like this toward anyone since Mary, but this felt different. This felt genuine, natural, like it was always meant to happen, born from years of trust. He had felt it for some time, but fear of ruining something great stopped him from saying anything. If his relationship with you crashed and burned the same way it did with Mary, his heart wouldn’t be able to take it.

He vowed to himself that he would tell you everything once you were safely back home.

“Who goes there?” He heard Charles shout out, barely registering he was back at camp.

“Just me,” Arthur sighed, slowing down to a trot as Charles came up beside him.

“Find her?”

“She's been taken… O’Driscolls took her through Valentine, heading southwest.”

Having only heard Charles swear only a few times, it took him by surprise when he heard the man mutter a curse under his breath, escorting Arthur as he entered camp, still staying on his horse. A light pat on his leg caught him off guard. “Rest up. We’ll head out at sunrise.”

“I’m just grabbin’ a few thing. She ain’t… I ain’t got time to sleep…” he trailed off, fighting back a conveniently timed yawn. “I can handle this myself.”

“She’s my friend too, you know. Maybe not as close as you two, but I care about her. And don’t think you’d survive ambushing a camp of O’Driscolls by yourself,” Charles shook his head, turning and walking back to his guard post, keeping his eyes on Arthur. “I only got a half hour left on my shift. We’ll rest until sunrise and head out. Neither of us will be able to help her if we’re dead on our feet.”

After failing to move, he watched the hunter turn back around, his face calm despite his words. “Don’t make me pull you off that horse, Arthur.”

He couldn’t help rolling his eyes, dismounting before walking toward his tent, sitting down on his cot with his head in his hands, hat left on the nightstand next to him. “Hang on, princess,” he muttered, as if it was going to help anything, before trying his hardest to get any semblance of rest.

True to his word, Charles woke him at the crack of the rising sun, and he left a note for the others letting them know where he was going, just in case. That was roughly four days ago, nowhere close to finding you than before.

He just prayed he would get to you in time.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

“Miss Grimshaw, I need help!” Dutch’s panicked voice jolted you to consciousness, your eyes squinting against the harsh sunlight, bringing your arm up to block against the intrusion, before realization settled in.

Dutch was talking.

You were home.

Instantly you were awake, bolting upright into a sitting position, scaring the hell out of said man, who you saw take a step back, before rushing to your side.

You could barely understand the words coming out of your mouth, your eyes finally clearing as you took in the leader of your group kneeled before you, relief etched across his face. “It’s Colm- Dutch, I-, he–” you were almost hyperventilating as your eyes darted around manically, your body and mind suddenly overwhelmed.

Two hands grabbed your face, focusing your attention on the man in front of you. “Breathe, my dear. Just. Breathe.”

Following his instructions, you took a deep breath in, and out, repeating the action until your heart rate slowed down a tick. Miss Grimshaw, at this time, was by your side now, asking you questions that you were too out of it to hear. “Dutch, it was Colm. I- It was a setup. He took me. But I got away.” You only noticed you were crying when Dutch wiped away the tears with a handkerchief, something almost fatherly in the action. “I got away.” You repeated, more to yourself than anything.

A rare, true smile graced Dutch as his hands moved from your face to your shoulders, being mindful of the obvious injury there. “Yeah, that you did. But you’re safe now.”

“He was gonna set the law on us, Dutch.”

“Of course he was.” Sighing, you felt Dutch’s grip on you let up as he stood. “But that’s not a problem for you to worry about right now. All you need to focus on is getting better, okay?”

Nodding, you went to try and stand, almost collapsing until you felt Miss Grimshaw on your right side sling your arm over her shoulders, allowing you to rest your weight on her. She led you to your cot, Dutch following behind with his arms out like you were a child learning to walk for the first time. Exhaustion made its presence known again, and you felt your head grow fuzzy, black spots dancing across your vision.

You were almost fully tucked into your cot before a new thought caused you to sit right back up, earning you a disapproving sigh from Miss Grimshaw. “Where’s Arthur?”

Dutch, who stood at the entrance of your tent, left, and you heard him shout to Javier. “Go track down Arthur. Tell him his girl’s home.”

Glancing over to Miss Grimshaw, you asked again. “Where’s Arthur?”

Cupping your hand in hers, she responded. “Him and Charles are out looking for you. Have been since you’ve been gone.”

“How long was I gone for?”

“About four days, dear. You gave us quite a fright.”

“And he’s… they’ve been out looking for me?”

She rolled her eyes, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course. People really care about you, you know. Arthur especially. But,” she pressed down on your good shoulder, making you lay down flat on the bed, “you need sleep. Javier’ll find him in no time. He’ll be here when you wake.”

Your hand in hers was the last thing you remember before sleep overcame you.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

“Nothing here,” Charles shouted from a closeby building as Arthur investigated the small hut, long since abandoned, the rotting floorboards barely holding him as he searched.

Opening the final room and meeting only dust bunnies and brown rats, he holstered his gun, his increasing anxiety causing his heart to beat wildly. “Same here,” he shouted back, exiting the building with a huff, sitting down on the dilapidated staircase as Charles approached him.

He was getting desperate at this point. They had searched what felt like every abandoned campsite and building, no sign of you or O’Driscolls anywhere. Not allowing himself to go down a rabbit hole, he pulled out his map, spreading it across his lap so Charles could look as well. With his pencil, he crossed off their current location, another X added to the page.

Weariness was also starting to take a toll on him, not as alert as he was days prior, the same going for Charles, but neither of them would be able to stop until they’d found you. Muttering under his breath, he scanned the map for their next location, reaching for his revolver when he heard the sound of fast hoof beats approaching the two of them.

Glancing up, a familiar black and white horse whizzed past, skidding to a halt as the rider practically jumped off, running up to the startled duo.

Javier stood before them, hair in disarray, panting as heavily as his horse, who gladly took a break from a straight dash from camp. Arthur couldn’t read the man’s expression, and he stood up warily, the map falling somewhere in the dirt. There was only reason why Javier was here, a fact that Arthur and Charles seemed to understand at the same time, anxiously waiting for the man to speak.

“She’s home.”

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

A new hand held yours when you woke.

It was significantly larger than Miss Grimshaw’s, strong callouses adorning the fingers, yet despite that roughness it held your hand like it was the most precious thing in the world.

When it felt you begin to stir, it held on a little tighter, a sigh of relief coming from the owner. Groggily, you opened your eyes slightly, almost immediately wanting to close them as the sunlight streaming from the entrance of the tent nearly blinded you, and you tried rolling over, crying out in pain as you rolled on to your left shoulder, having completely forgotten about the wound there.

“Easy there, princess,” Arthur murmured, the low gravel of his voice music to your ears.

Moving slowly, you glanced over to your side, smiling gently at the rugged cowboy who held your hand. “Hello-” a coughing fit wracked your body, throat dry from dehydration. Within seconds Arthur was right at your side, using his free hand to prop you up, rubbing your back as you coughed.

After a few seconds the fit subsided. Groaning, you rubbed at your eyes, your hair falling around your face. Arthur’s hand moved from your back, and you nearly let out a noise of complaint until he presented you with a waterskin, which you gladly took and began to greedily gulp down.

The water, despite being a tad bit warm, felt amazing, some of it spilling from your mouth and onto your lap. As you drank, you heard him call out for Miss Grimshaw, loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to startle you. Within seconds the tent flaps swished open, Miss Grimshaw standing with her hands on her hips as she looked you up and down, a small smile on her face. “Well, it’s about time you woke up.”

She pressed her hand against your face, feeling for any sort of fever. “How’re you feeling?”

Bringing down the water skin, which Arthur took away to stop you from making yourself sick from drinking too much. “I feel like I was hit by a train. Everything hurts.”

Removing her hand from your face, she quickly left the tent, returning moments later with a tonic in her hands, opening and offering it to you. “For the pain,” she simply said, gesturing for you to drink it.

It burned as it went down, the bitter concoction instigating another coughing fit, luckily shorter than the other. Arthur took the empty bottle from your hands, tossing it behind him somewhere in the tent as Miss Grimshaw sat in front of you on the cot, beginning to remove the bandage that now covered your left shoulder.

Glancing down, you noticed that someone had cleaned you, the grime from the O’Driscolls basement nowhere to be seen, replaced by a fresh nightgown and clear skin. Well, clear in the sense that there wasn’t a speck of dirt on you. Various cuts, bruises, and burns adorned your body, most of them having already scabbed and on the way to be completely healed. Only a few were bandaged up, the worst being the gunshot wound on your shoulder.

While you had taken in the state of your body, Miss Grimshaw had been able to fully remove the bandage from your shoulder, and you let out a wince as the air hit the wound. The wound, you saw, wasn’t infected, but it was irritated, glaring red as Miss Grimshaw applied a slave to it, tears pricking your eyes at the pain.

You felt Arthur begin to rub your hand soothingly, murmuring small praises as she redressed the injury. “You’re healing well. Won’t be too long until you're back on your feet,” Miss Grimshaw spoke, brushing her hands on her skirt as she stood. “Just make sure you’re getting lots of rest, drinking lots of water, and eating good food. That one right there will make sure you do,” she winked at Arthur, who looked away embarrassed. “I’ll let the others know you’re awake. Visitors, or no?” When you shook your head no, she nodded in understanding. Turning to leave, she paused right at the entrance, before glancing back over at you. “It’s good to see you awake, dear.”

Before you could get a chance to respond, she left, leaving you and Arthur alone, still holding each other's hands. You felt your hair, which still hung around your face, begin to move as Arthur tucked it behind your ear, smiling lightly as he finally was able to make eye contact with you. There was obvious relief in his eyes, but something vulnerable there as well. You noticed the dark circles beneath his eyes, and noticing the chair pulled up to the side of your bed, as well as some of his personal belongings sitting beside him, you were able to quickly piece together that Arthur had been at your side the entire time you slept.

An unfamiliar yet not unwelcome pang hit your heart as you took in the man beside you, the man who was unyieldingly devoted to you, and the man you were so helplessly in love with. In any other circumstance, you would have pushed those thoughts away, but now you let them wash over you, sweeping away all the ache in your bones. You felt yourself smiling brightly at the cowboy, the cuts on your face making their presence known as the skin moved, but you couldn’t care less. All that mattered right now was Arthur.

Glancing down at your entwined hands, you let out a content sigh, before bringing his knuckles up to your lips, giving them a quick kiss before letting it fall back to your lap. Your heart hammered fast in your chest as you opened your mouth, ready to spill your most closely guarded secret to the man beside you. “I’m-”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said at the same time, his louder voice covering yours, the confession stuck between your lips as you sealed them back up, and you furrowed your brows, momentarily forgetting what you were about to do.

“I’m sorry.” Arthur went to stand up, his stoic mask back up, trying to disentangle your hand from his, but you held on as tight as you could, stopping him from pulling away completely. “I’ll… I’ll leave you be now. Said you didn’t want visitors.”

“You know damn well that doesn’t mean you, Arthur Morgan,” you nearly growled, your voice scratchy as you tried to pull him back down to his seat. When he didn’t budge, you sighed, tugging lightly at him. “Please stay,” you whispered, and you could see the war being fought in his head as he stood there, unmoving.

A minute passed before he relented, letting you drag him back down to his seat with what strength you had. He was looking at you, but he wasn’t making eye contact, instead taking in every injury on your body that you had obtained at the hands of the O’Driscolls, squeezing your hand tighter as his gaze settled on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” you heard him apologize for the third time, and you just shook your head at him.

“And I still don’t know what you’re apologizing for, mister. You weren’t the one to do this to me, right?”

“God, no,” he replied, visibly disgusted at the notion.

“Then you have nothing to be sorry for.”

Shaking his head, you saw him bring himself closer to you, the chair gliding through the pelt that lined the floor of your tent. “I knew it was a trap. If I hadn’t made you-”

You cut him off by pressing your finger to his lips, silencing him as his eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “We all knew it was a trap, Arthur. But the thought of having any sort of peace with the O’Driscolls made us turn a blind eye. And you didn’t make me do anything. I went of my own free will. And besides,” you removed your finger, failing to notice how his eyes had darkened slightly during the whole action. “If it wasn’t me who got taken, then it would’ve been you or the others. It was inevitable.”

“It shouldn’t’ve happened.”

You shrugged. “Maybe not. But it did. It’s done now. We gotta move on now.”

“Next time I’ll be doing overwatch.”

“Like hell you are,” you scoffed, some of the tension leaving the conversation. “I’m the better shot, anyway.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows, leaning back slightly in his chair away from you. You tried to not look disappointed. “Is that so?”

“Yup,” you nodded vehemently, smirking slightly. “Best shot in the camp, hands down.”

“Uh-huh. Wanna go prove that to me then?”

“I ain’t got nothing to prove to you, Arthur, and you know it,” you laughed.

“Nah, you’re right,” he conceded. “You’re incredible.”

The total honesty in his voice caught you off guard, and you felt a slight flush creep up your face, no doubt turning your cheeks dark. Glancing away, the two of you fell into an easy silence that only came with him, and he mindlessly stroked your hand.

A few moments had passed before you looked back up at him, a crease in his brow, deep in thought, barely even registering your movement as he hung his head low. Shaking his hand slightly, you were able to get him to look up at you, giving him an easy smile. “What’s on your mind, cowboy?”

Looking like a fish out of water with the way his mouth gaped, he rubbed the back of his neck, no longer looking you in the eye as he fumbled with the words he was trying to say. It was almost silly, seeing the deadly man before you, someone who could send a person running with only a glance, at a loss of words. “Why’re you nervous? It’s just me,” you reassured him.

Or at least you tried to reassure him, your words stressing him more than relaxing him. “How’d you…” be began, trailing off shortly thereafter.

“I’m a mind reader.”

“You ain’t a mind reader. If you was, then I wouldn’t have to sit here, stumbling over my words like an idiot trying to figure out how to tell you…” he trailed off again, sighing anxiously, his face almost beet red.

“You’re not an idiot,” you chided, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, your knees knocking against Arthur’s. You ignored the butterflies erupting in your stomach at the proximity, bringing your hand up to cup the side of his face to bring his gaze back to yours. You tried to move your hand away but he caught it, keeping it pressed against his cheek. “And, even if I could read your mind, I’d wanna hear it from your lips anyway.”

He pressed his forehead against yours, collecting his thoughts for a moment. “I’ve been… I’ve been real scared to tell you this, you know. Everytime I try, the words just don’t come out right, and I ain’t too keen on making a fool of myself in front of you. I just… I hope this don’t change things between us… I don’t think I’d be able to live without you by my side. And if you don’t feel the same… which I pray that you do… then we never have to talk about this again. We’ll just move on, like you said.”

He pressed a quick kiss to the inside of your wrist, his beard pleasantly tickling the sensitive skin. A little gasp left your lips, the cowboy chuckling in response. But he didn’t continue speaking, his own anxieties halting his words. You knew what he was going to say; it was on the tip of his tongue. He just needed a push.

“Do you love me?” You asked, voice barely louder than a whisper.

Arthur nodded, gazing at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

“Then say it. I promise you, nothing bad is gonna come from it.”

“How is that you make me feel so calm yet terrified?” Arthur sighed gently. “When you were taken… it made me realize how big a fool I really am for you. And I almost didn’t get to tell you… I was ready to tear down every O’Driscoll until you were back home. But you went and saved yourself, cause of course you did. I wasn’t kiddin’ when I said you was incredible. You’re back home now, so now I get to tell you I love you. I really, really do.”

He let out a shaky exhale, a visible weight being let off his shoulders. “I have for a while now… but I just kept pushing it away and denying it. After what happened the last time I bared my heart out for someone, I was scared of it happenin’ again. I knew you wouldn’t hurt me… but a part of me refused to let me feel this way. I’m… I’m not a good man. I’ve done bad things, I’ve hurt people. Maybe I don’t deserve you, but I’m selfish enough to want you anyway. If you want me too, then I will spend the rest of our time together proving that I am worthy enough to be by your side.”

“Oh, Arthur,” you felt tears beginning to well up after finally hearing the words you’ve been waiting for for some time. “You silly man. I love you, too.” Despite the tears, you were smiling brightly, a similar expression mirrored on Arthur. You felt giddy, laughter bubbling from your lips. “I love you so much, and there is nothing you could do that would change that. And you don’t have to prove anything to me. The man right here is all I need.”

Blue eyes looked down at your lips, the distance between the two of you was so close yet so far, lips merely inches from your own with your foreheads connected. You watched as Arthur wet his lips, looking back up into your eyes with a look of longing.

“May I kiss-'' your lips pressed against his before he could finish the question, silencing him the way you wish you could have earlier. The cowboy let out a surprised grunt, the momentum of your body pressing against his nearly sending him backwards, his hat sitting precariously on his head. It only took him a second to recover from the shock before his lips moved, plush but chapped yet perfect in every sense.

Using the hand still cupped to his face, you moved it behind, scratching your nails lightly up the back of his neck before tangling your fingers in the short hair, tugging slightly. A delicious whine left Arthur, mouth parting slightly against yours as the kiss deepened. You felt his hold on your hand leave, instead grabbing your hips and pulling you towards him so you were practically on his lap.

All you could think about was Arthur. He flooded every sense, every fiber of your being fully enraptured by the man. So enraptured, in fact, that you temporarily forgot the trauma that your body had just been subjected to, so when you tried to use your left arm to situate yourself better, a shock of pain overtook you, forcing you to break away from his lips with a pained groan.

Immediately, whatever love fueled haze had flooded the two of you dissipated, leaving a concerned Arthur holding you as pain tore through your body, before dissolving into an incessant ache. “Shit… sorry,” you were panting, out of breath for two incredibly different reasons.

“Nothing to apologize for. You alright?”

“Got a little eager,” you smiled a tad bit sheepishly. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

“So we’ve both been fools this entire time?” When you nodded, he laughed, partially in disbelief. “And only a little eager?” he jested, rubbing his scalp tenderly.

“Yeah… sorry.”

“And I said there was nothing to apologize for. Besides,” he brought his lips close to your ear, voice rumbling as he spoke. “I like it when it hurts a bit.” He sat up, pressing a kiss to your temple before doing so.

The implications were not lost on you, yet you still found yourself staring wide-eyed at him. Noticing your hesitation, he backpedaled slightly. “If that’s alright. I don’t wanna force ya… or make you uncomfortable…”

“I’d like that, very much. Just not now, though. I’m exhausted.”

“It’s alright. We don’t gotta to do anything until you’re ready.” With a gentle smile, he gave you a quick kiss, pulling away too quickly for your liking. When you pouted slightly, he chuckled and shook his head. “There’ll be plenty of time for that later. You, princess, need rest.” You sighed, and with Arthur’s help you situated yourself back on the cot, still sitting up as he fixed the pillows behind you.

“Will you lay with me?” You thought he was going to say no, but he instead started toeing off his boots, setting them beside the bed before sitting behind you. A firm arm wrapped around your front, pulling you down to lay atop of him, your head resting comfortably on his chest. He kissed the crown of your head, and you snuggled into the man. The smell of him, a mix of gunpowder, leather, and something woodsy, filled your nose, lulling you into a relaxed state.

“I love you,” you mumbled out, face partially buried into his shirt. Gentle fingers combed through your hair, a pleased sigh leaving you as your eyes fluttered close.

“I love you, too. Now, rest. You’ve got a long few weeks ahead of ya.”

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

The first day of your recovery was the worst. Not because of the aches in your body, but the fact that everyone in camp had decided to come see you sometime in the day. You were grateful, yes, but it was exhausting. As nice as it was, a part of you just wished all the attention on you would go away. One more sympathetic look and you were going to throttle someone.

Dutch came in first that morning (with your permission), two cups of coffee in his hands as he sauntered in. He looked a bit caught off guard when he saw Arthur sitting behind you, still partially asleep in your cot as you sat up in the bed. After the initial shock wore off, a large shit-eating grin took over his face.

Setting one of the cups on the nightstand, he roughly patted the cowboy on his shoulder, who practically yelped at the sudden aggressive contact. “Atta boy, Arthur!” his boisterous laugh shook the tent, and you couldn’t help but laugh at the expense of Arthur. “Took you long enough. Thought you’d never grow the balls to tell her.”

In a sudden change, his face took on a serious expression as he leaned down close to Arthur, talking quietly enough for only the other man to hear. Whatever he said must’ve scared Arthur, his face turning a few shades paler. But within moments laughter returned to the black haired man who now had his full attention on you, handing you a cup of coffee which you gratefully took. “It is good to see you up, dear. Nothing can keep you down can it?”

“Not so sure about nothing, but O’Driscolls sure as hell can’t.”

“No ma’am,” he chuckled, pulling up and sitting in the chair that Arthur was in last night. “And trust me when I say they’ll regret ever touching a single hair on you.”

You nodded, lightly sipping the hot beverage in your hands. “Just don’t do it without me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Standing up, he gestured to the drink on the nightstand. “Help yourself to that Arthur. It was mine, but I wasn’t expecting you to have… company this morning. Now, get better quickly. Can’t have my best shot out of commision for too long.” With that, Dutch left your tent, Arthur giving a sigh of relief when he did.

Glancing over at Arthur with an I told you so look, you found him still paler than normal, shifting uncomfortably behind you. Snuggling up into his arms seemed to snap him out of partially, but you still saw his eyes flicking across the room, like he was expecting danger to pop out from anywhere. “What’d Dutch say?” you asked, Arthur’s arms wrapping around you as your face buried into his shoulder.

“I… nothing important, trust me,” he muttered, trying to brush over the question. Not taking that as an answer, you tilted your head to the side so you could look up at him, an unimpressed look on your face. Sighing, you felt his lips press a kiss to your forehead before he responded. “Let’s just say you got some… uh… guardians around camp.”

“Aw. That’s sweet.”

“Not so sweet when you’re the one getting threatened with gelding tongs,” you heard him mutter, and Arthur’s panicked look made a whole lot more sense now. You couldn’t help the giggles that erupted from you.

“Did- did Dutch threaten you, Arthur?” you barely managed to get out. His answering sigh was all you needed for confirmation, and you felt another fit of laughter overtake you. Arthur wasn’t long to stay upset, feeling his chest rumble with a light laugh.

“He’s always kept me in line. As best he could, anyway. But that’s enough about me. How’re you feeling, princess?” He sat beside you on the edge of the bed, wrapping an arm around you gingerly. Pulling you down, you felt him pull you towards him, giving you a kiss atop your head.

“I’m feeling like I’m gonna be sick of that question soon.”

You swore you could hear him roll his eyes. “Just answer the question.”

With an exaggerated huff, you turned so you were facing, his arm and hand now in your lap. You intertwined your fingers with his. “I’m okay. Just really sore.”

“And…” Arthur tapped lightly on your forehead. “How ‘bout there?”

“Surprisingly alright. I… I don’t really remember too much, to be honest.”

“Well, that’s good. But, if something changes, or you need… ‘dunno… someone to talk to, let me know. I ain’t the best with words… but I can listen pretty well.”

“Thank you, Arthur.” With a smile, you pressed your lips against his cheek, the slight prickle from his beard tickling you. He didn’t let you move back too far, however. A light hand cupped the back of your head, keeping you steady, but not strong enough to keep you from moving if you wished.

“And you said you was the best shot in camp. You missed.” Arthur had an almost cheeky smile on his face.

Scoffing in fake indignation, you kissed him, a satisfied hum leaving the cowboy as your lips made contact. His one hand still made contact with your head, the other wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Running your own through his soft hair, another satisfied noise left him, and you pulled back with a pleased smile. “There. Happy?”

“Very. Now c’mere…” he said with a playful growl, before peppering kisses across your face, neck, and shoulders, being mindful of your injuries. You found yourself giggling as he continued his attack, turning into a yelp when you felt him nip lightly at your jaw. Lightly swatting at his shoulder, he moved back, still holding you gently. “You make me so happy, don’t you ever think otherwise.” With a final brush of his lips against yours, you watched his eyes flick behind you where the entrance to your tent was. Turning around, you saw Hosea standing there, tonic in one hand, a book in the other.

Sitting back down at the edge of the bed, you gestured for the older man to come in, a soft look on his face as he sat in the chair in front of you. “So that’s why you weren’t at your tent, Arthur,” he commented, and the younger cowboy sheepishly looked away. “You’re looking better. At least, better than you did twelve hours ago. How’re you feeling?”

Fighting the urge to bash your head into the nearest hard surface, you gave him the same response you gave Arthur. With a nod, he handed you the tonic, the greenish bottle filled to the top with liquid. “For the pain. And,” he handed you the book, “For the boredom.”

It was a copy of A Cristmas Carol, a brand new one at that. You knew that Hosea was quite the reader, so it came as no surprise that he knew where the name of your horse came from. “I know it’s nowhere near Christmas time, but I hope it will bring you some comfort.”

“It will. I… Thank you, Hosea.”

“You’re very welcome, dear. Is there anything else you need?”

“I think… I think I’d like some food. Let me just…” with your feet planted on the ground, you tried to stand up, the idea of a fresh meal urging you to leave your bed. As soon as you were fully upright, however, the world began to spin. Two arms caught you before you made contact with the floor, Arthur having stood up when you did, and he eased you back down to the bed.

At this point, Hosea was on his feet too, his hands planted on his hips like a parent would when scolding their child. “You’re in no state to be moving. Me ‘n’ Arthur will get your food for you. Just stay here.” Patting your right shoulder affectionately, he beckoned Arthur with a nod, the two of them leaving your tent together after Arthur put his boots back on.

You calling out Arthur’s names stopped the cowboy in his tracks, a concerned look on his face as he turned to face you. “Please take some time for yourself. Change your clothes, take a bath, something like that.”

“You sayin’ I smell?”

“I’m sayin’ you smell like you haven’t been at camp for a few days. Now go.”

“Alright, princess,” Arthur laughed, a grin on his face as he left the tent.

For the first time since you’d been back, you were alone. The tent was eerily silent, the only noise your breathing and the rustling of sheets as you got back into bed, sitting up against the pillows. Grimacing, you downed the entire tonic bottle, the liquid bitter as ever. You set the empty glass on your nightstand, your throat already going numb from the ingredients.

Waiting for Hosea to return with food, you thought over the events of the last couple of days. Most of it was hazy, in your brain. The only things you remembered were flashes of pain and the voices of the O’Driscolls. Everything else was gone, just blank spaces in your memory. Rubbing your face with your hand, you winced slightly as you pressed down a little too hard at what you assumed was a bruise on your cheekbone. You realized you had yet to see your face, unaware of the damage done to it.

Sighing, you barely noticed that Hosea was back in the tent with you, a bowl of hot stew in his hands, the smell causing saliva to begin pooling in your mouth. Handing you the bowl, along with a fresh skin of water, the man returned to the chair next to you.

“Don’t get too lost in those thoughts of yours. It’ll be hard to get you back out.”

“It’s not like there’s many thoughts in there anyway. I hardly remember anything that happened. I can’t tell if that should be concerning or relieving.” You said through spoonfuls of food, the temperature of it burning your mouth.

“Did they do anything… untoward to you?” Hosea asked, hesitating slightly.

You shrugged. “If they did, I don’t remember. But I don’t think so, saying nothing hurts down there.”

The older gunslinger let out a small sigh, his body relaxing some in relief. “Well, we can take some assurance that they aren’t animals.” He fell silent, giving you a few moments to eat. “Don’t be too worried about your memories. It’s common for our minds to shut out events that happened to us. Whether you want them to come back, however, is up to debate. Some events aren’t worth remembering.”

He fell silent again, lost in thought as you took another bite of your food. You were getting full now, your stomach not used to having so much food in it. You sat the bowl, which still had about half its contents left, on your nightstand. At the clattering of the bowl, Hosea seemed to snap out of whatever headspace he was in, giving you a small smile as he took the bowl. “Thank you,” he said while standing up, and you gave him a confused look.

“Thank you for coming back to us. To the gang. Lord knows what would happen to us if we lost you. Don’t know what would happen to Arthur, either.” He laughed humorlessly while shaking his head. “We’re all proud of you. I’m proud of you. You’re tougher than most, that’s for sure.” With a final kind smile, he left, leaving you, and your tears, to your lonesome again. Sipping lightly from the waterskin he left you, a gentle warmth growing in your chest from Hosea’s words.

It seemed like the universe still didn’t want you to be alone, however, because before you could even collect yourself, a small body came barreling into your tent, a larger one following with an apologetic look on her face. “I’m so sorry,” Abigail began, trying to usher an eager Jack out of your space. “When he heard you was awake, he wanted to come see you, and I tried-”

“It’s all good, Abigail. I don’t mind the company.” You tried to brush away the remnants of your tears. Abigail didn’t see, or if she did, she didn’t make a comment about it. Either way, you were grateful.

An eager Jack stood beside your bed, a wide grin on his face. Stretching out his arms, he held in his fists a small bouquet of wildflowers, with various flower types that ranged from all sorts of different colors. Pressing a hand over your heart, you gratefully took the bouquet from Jack. “For me? Thank you, Jack. They’re beautiful. You wanna help me put them somewhere safe?”

When the boy nodded, you handed him the waterskin, and he held it like it was the most important thing in his life. Grabbing the empty tonic bottle from your nightstand, you held it in your lap. “Pour a small amount of water in, so I can get the old stuff out first.”

After doing what you asked, you swished the water around the bottle, clearing out any extra tonic residue that might be left over. Pouring it out somewhere behind your bed (avoiding the pelt that acted as your carpet), you gestured for him to refill the bottle again. This time, instead of dumping it back out, you placed the small bouquet in it, the opening of the bottle barely big enough to hold all the flowers. Carefully you put the bottle back on the nightstand, and when it didn’t tip over, you let out a celebratory clap.

“Look how pretty those are, Jack! You picked out the best flowers.”

“I hope they make you feel better, Auntie Morgan. Ma says you got hurt real bad.”

“I bet they will,” you replied, not even registering what he said until a few seconds later. “Auntie Morgan? Where’d that come from?”

Jack shrugged, and you saw Abigail give you yet another apologetic look. “Well, I saw Uncle Arthur leave your tent, and he never did that before. And Ma told me that when someone has a tent with someone, it means they are dating! And when you are dating, you have the same last name! So that means you are now Auntie Morgan!”

“Oh… I mean… well…” You’re sure your face was significantly darker than it was moments ago as you stumbled over your words.

“Jack!” Abigail reprimanded, a horrified look on her face at Jack’s comment. “I’m… I’m so sorry, I just… that’s the only way I knew how to explain it to Jack when he asked.”

“Well, you’re not entirely wrong. We are… I think.”

“You… you are? When you nodded, Abigail gasped excitedly. “Oh, well that’s wonderful! I’m happy for you!” She hugged you gently before taking a step back by her son. “It’s about time…” she teased, and you rolled your eyes.

“I told you she was Auntie Morgan, Ma!”

“Not quite yet, Jack. We’re not married. Only married people have each other’s last names,” you tried to explain.

“So are you gonna marry Uncle Arthur then?”

Thank goodness you hadn’t decided to take a drink of your water, or else it would've been spat out at his question. Your face felt flame hot at this point, and you nervously picked at your nails. “We’ve only just started dating, Jack. I… He hasn’t asked me that question yet.”

“Do you want to marry Uncle Arthur?”

“That’s enough!” Abigail practically jumped to cover Jack’s mouth. You laughed at Jack’s lack of filter despite your growing flustered state. With her hands on his shoulders, she led Jack outside, returning by her lonesome a short while later. Sighing, she sat on the side of your bed. “Sorry ‘bout that, again.”

With a wave, you dismissed her concerns. “It made me laugh.” You could tell she was itching to say something, but couldn’t tell if it was rude or not. “Me and Arthur spoke last night. We… confessed some things to each other, and, well, you heard what I said. There’s… something between us.”

“I really am happy for you,” she smiled at you, taking your hand in hers. “You two are good for each other. Being close with someone, in this life, it ain’t easy. But that don’t mean it ain’t worth it. Treasure the moments you have together, and take time for you both. Be there for each other, but don’t be fully dependent on the other. Communicate, even if it’s hard. Lord knows I know that all too well.” An almost regretful look crossed her features, a tiny frown pulling at her lips, as if reminiscing over past mistakes between her and John.

“And, if he breaks your heart, which I pray he never does, just know that there is a camp full of nasty outlaws that would do anything for you. Myself included,” she added, a playful look replacing the old one.

“Thank you, Abigail.”

With a final squeeze of your hand, Abigail stood up, brushing out the creases in her skirt. “I’ll try my best to stop Jack from saying too much ‘bout the two of you. But, be ready for anything.” As she exited the tent, you could hear Jack loudly talking to someone about the conversation he just had with you. Groaning, you flopped your head back, praying that someone wasn’t Arthur.

The rest of that first day was filled with rest broken up by people coming to visit you. Charles had come in about twenty minutes after Abigail, and the two of you had chatted for a good while, catching up on his and Arthur’s adventure to find you. He had also gifted you a small whittled version of your horse, the wood stained to match his black and white coat. You had accepted the gift with gratitude, setting it by your flowers after staring at it in your hands for a long while.

Arthur had come back during Charle’s visit, freshly bathed and with new clothes on. His hair was still slightly damp as he stood awkwardly at the entrance, not wanting to barge in on your conversation. Gesturing him further inside, you then patted the bed behind you where he was before, moving further up so there was more space for him.

As he came over, he patted Charles on his shoulder, joining into the conversation with a few additions to the story as he slid into the bed behind you. You didn’t fully lay against him, not wanting to get too affectionate in front of your friend and making him uncomfortable. Charles only stayed a few minutes after that, giving you a light hug before leaving the two of you.

Reclining fully against Arthur’s chest, you let out a pleased sigh as you felt him embrace you. “Y’know, I heard some crazy things from Jack not too long ago.” You felt him laugh as your head rolled back defeatedly, eyes closed.

“He’s definitely Marston’s kid, that’s for sure. Nosy little…” you grumbled, and you felt him laugh again.

“He’s not the only one. Mary-Beth and the girls nearly jumped me after they saw me leave. Barely made it down to the river in one piece.”

“How’d you survive?”

“John got ‘em off my back. Then, once the other’s were out of earshot, began hounding me with his own questions. I swear, the whole camp is a bunch of high society folks who got nothing to do but gossip all day.”

“Can’t fault them. It’s not everyday that the gang has a new couple in it.” You hadn’t meant for the term couple to slip out. You knew there was something between the two of you, but you feared putting a label on it. Slowly opening your eyes, you tried to gauge Arthur’s facial expression, but to no avail. You remembered Abigail’s words about communication, so you took the leap of faith. “We… Are we a couple? Are we… dating?” It felt juvenile to use the word dating, but you knew no other way to ask.

“Yes?” Arthur replied almost immediately, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Oh. You felt a little silly, and you closed your eyes again, avoiding Arthur’s confused glance.

“Unless…” you could hear the panic and disappointment in his voice, and you immediately reopened your eyes, lifting out of his embrace to turn and face him fully.

“No, we are! It’s just, you… we never said that we were, like, official, and I didn’t want to put a label on it and make you uncomfortable and I really want to be yours but I don’t want to push you into somethin’ if you’re not ready for it and… what?” Your rambling was cut short by the fond yet amused look on Arthur’s face.

“I’m more than ready for this. Trust me. I want this. I want you.”

“Okay,” you nodded, kissing him quickly, before laying back down on Arthur, this time facing his chest, your face burrowed in the crook of his neck. You felt his hand rub up and down your back, pressing kisses on the top of your head as you settled in. You were starting to feel sleepy, a mix of the food, tonic, and Arthur lulling you back to unconsciousness.

“You smell good,” you mumbled, voiced half muffled by his neck.

“Do I meet your standards, princess?”

“Y’always do, pretty boy.”

“Pretty boy?” Arthur scoffed lightly.

“Very pretty. Prettiest boy I’ve ever met.”

You felt him shake his head, clearly not believing you, but you could feel his heart rate began to pick up. You didn’t have to look up to know he was blushing.

“Go ahead and rest. You want me to send away visitors?”

“Only for an hour. Just gonna close my eyes for a bit. Promise me you’ll only let me sleep for a bit.

“I promise,” was the last thing Arthur said to you before you fell asleep.

By the end of the day, your nightstand and the floor around it was filled with various trinkets and goods from the other gang members; Lenny had brought you your favorite candy; Javier had gotten you a new necklace that he totally hadn’t stolen; Mary-Beth bought you a new shirt, your previous destroyed beyond repair. It was at that point you remembered that your old boots and hat were still at the O’Driscoll’s camp.

To your surprise, even Micah had stopped in, albeit briefly, giving you a quick apology before leaving. You and Arthur had shared a good laugh at that after he was long gone. As sick as you were at hearing the question “how are you doing”, it was nice to be cared for like this.

Throughout the day, Arthur stayed by your side, leaving for only a few moments to relieve himself, grab something for you, or to confer with the others in camp. He would call on one of the girls in camp to help you when needed to relieve yourself. Dutch, bless him, didn’t call on Arthur once that day, giving both of you much needed rest. When you weren’t getting visitors or resting, you and Arthur chatted or cuddled in silence.

Darkness had long since flooded your tent, the lantern hanging unlit in the center of your tent. Laying on your right side, Arthur lay behind you, arm strung across your waist, keeping you pulled close to him. As you closed your eyes, the warmth of the man behind you better than any blanket on the market, you realized there was no way you were ever going to be able to sleep alone again.

You found yourself fine with that fact.

#arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2

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mortuarywriting · 6 months

Text

Falling into Place

Ao3 Link - [First] - [Next Chapter ->]

All things considered this isn't what you were expecting to wake up to when you went to bed. One minute you're on your phone, trying to pass out, and the next? You're here. You've had some interesting greetings in your life, but dropping about six feet and having twelve guns leveled at your face? That takes the cake

Warnings:

Reader Insert, Plus-Size Reader, The Author Regrets Everything, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Isekai, canon divergence Look we're gonna dig into the implications of omegasverse changing bits and pieces of history as well as addressing whatever the FUCK is happening as CoD's history. Idk man Godzilla is canon and nobody bats an eye at that fact and you think I'm gonna be normal about that? No

You could be having a worse day, you think, as you stare at the interrogation table you're cuffed to. They could've shot you the second you fell the six feet from the sky into a random army base. That's a very real thing that could've happened.

But no, you just had a dozen guns pointed at you in one moment and a slew of questions you didn't have satisfying answers for.

No, you had no idea how you got there. You'd been in bed tooling around on your phone and then you were falling.

They asked who you worked for, and were not impressed by your mundane answer. You didn't work for some pmc or intelligence organization. You asked them to their faces if they thought you could pass a PT test if you tried. Not that they answered or appreciated your point, mind.

It was only after you gave them whatever identifying information you had that things got… spicy.

"I would love to tell you what this designation of yours is if you tell me what you mean. Is it like a classification of civilian versus enlisted? Is it physical? Is it your horoscope? I don't know what I don't know," you explain again for the Nth time. You didn't wanna play twenty questions but here you fuckin were, captive audience and all.

The man asking you questions had lost his charming good cop look. He was getting more and more annoyed on this one, "your designation," a demand, not a question and sure as shit not an answer.

"Again, would love to tell you! I don't know what you mean! Feels like some kinda Star Wars thing," you grumble the last bit to yourself but the man cocks his head.

His eyes narrow, "what are… Star Wars, you said?"

You blink owlishly, "beg pardon?"

"Star War. Clarify."

It's your turn for your brow to furrow, and furrow it does, "Star Wars? As in the multi-billion dollar franchise created by George Lucas and eventually sold to Disney," your tone is questioning, just shy of asking if the guy lived under a rock but his expression didn't let up and the last thing you needed was bad cop, so you continued, "the story of what happened a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away? The political space series of movies versus Star Trek's more scientific and discovery based longstanding TV show? Nine major movies and the Clone Wars before Disney sunk their talons in. Like yeah we got more shows and movies that expanded the universe but they also cut out decades of book contributions in their acquisition and that kinda sucked. But yeah, that Star Wars?"

"Nine movies," his tone is disbelieving, and now it's your turn for your eyebrows to raise, "can you name them?"

You nod, "well yeah. Do you want them in episode order or release?"

His brows furrow, "did they not release in order?"

"In a sense? Three trilogies, 4-5-6 back in the late 70s early 80s, then 1-2-3 in the late 90s early 00s, and 7-8-9 through the teens. So order, yes, just… not a cohesive one."

"Release, then," he leaned back and crossed his arms, a position you'd love to mimic if you weren't cuffed to the table for… an indeterminate period of time now, actually.

"A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, and Return of the Jedi-"

"Woah now, empire? What's a jeddy?"

You give him a blank look, trying very hard to mask your disbelief as you look between him and the mirror behind him. You look at your reflection, take a deep breath, and- "sir would it be easier for you to maybe check the internet?"

He seemed to bristle, nose flaring and looking at you expectantly.

You just… kinda sat there. You tapped your fingers together on the desk and kept the eye contact he was intent on. It took a good minute and him getting progressively pissier before you simply ask, "would you like the other movies now?"

You didn't expect an explosion of movement from the man. He downright snarled and slammed his hands on the table as he burst to his feet, the sudden change sending his chair screeching back before falling with a clatter. You leaned as far back as your cuffed hands would allow, eyes wide and a panic rising.

Both of you turned to look at the door when it slammed open with a barked, "Williams!"

The man who opened it reared back a bit, "Christ, layin' it on a bit thick," he groused, his tone sounding more like someone chastising a teenager for using too much Axe body spray. He smoothed his posture back into something casual as he fanned the air dismissively with a hand, "cap wants you to take a walk."

Your interrogator- Williams, apparently- stares at the man in the door, the two locking eyes before the one in the door straightens from his purposely relaxed posture. You watch the both of them, noting the shoulders tensing as the two just. Staring at each other? Eventually the guy who'd been grilling you looked away and stormed out, the man in the doorway letting him slip out easily enough before turning a charming look back to you.

He took a minute to fan the door a few times to get newer, blissfully cool air in before he entered the room, "sorry 'bout him. He really did a number in here," the new guy tsked before closing the door quietly behind himself.

Your brow furrowed even as you slowly relaxed a bit, had this Williams guy like… farted or something? A nice quirk of ventilation keeping you from smelling something abhorrent? Either way you simply shrug as he walks in and tips the chair back up, sitting and giving another reassuring smile, "how you doing, love?"

You opened and closed your mouth a few times before simply settling on, "I'm a bit… whelmed? This has been," you give as vague a rolling gesture as you can without your cuffs rattling too badly, "a lot? And I have no idea what just set him off either?"

It's the man before you's turn to quirk a brow, "no idea?"

"If I knew the answers to his questions I'd've given 'em by now. I don't, though, and then he just started staring? And hell I just thought it was some kinda macho 'I can stare the truth out of you,'" you pitched your voice lower and pushed your shoulders out for a second to mimic the douchebag behavior before settling, "so I kept eye contact because I'm so out of my depth I have no reason to lie at all and now…" you trail off, gesturing around the room, "all that."

The man nods slowly, "alright love, could you tell me about the last five years?"

Your brows furrow, "oh fuck, 2019 was five years ago wasn't it. God, time is an illusion. Anyway, you want what I was doing leading up to and through the pandemic?"

You think he might've startled for a second but he simply moved to scratch his chin, "mhmm. Just your thoughts on the last five years is all."

So… you ramble. Because he was nice and not prodding or asking weird questions. You talk to him about your job before the pandemic, how people thought covid was just a flu until the death tolls kept climbing, how tons of governments dropped the ball on a local or country-wide level and how that kicked back onto your life, and then the absolute crapshoot of the last election cycle, the shitty 'oh no this is the new normal everything is fine' behavior that has lead to surges and cycles of a fucking plague and so on. He simply nodded, gave some sympathetic hums and winces appropriately at your experiences.

"And did you go back and watch Star Wars through that? Or other things Disney owned?"

And, well, that was a weird way to phrase it but you shrugged, "the mouse is just shy of a monopoly and not one that anybody can take that down so… yeah, I guess? They kept putting shows out and expanding their Star Wars universe so that's been kinda neat to watch but not just them, no. Couple other games and stuff like that to keep me busy, too," you kinda handwave and shut up because panic rambling to MILITARY PERSONNEL is probably not your smartest move in hindsight. Especially when you don't know his name. A+, self.

You tap your fingers against the metal table as he looks at you, "and you said covid has a long term effect of ruining people's senses of smell and taste?"

You nod slowly, "yeah, dude? It's one of the biggest warning signs for most people? Like if everything starts tasting like it was made by a middle class white mom who keeps shoving random letters in her kids names you should swab? That kinda shit?"

What rock has this guy been living under? You were pretty sure the military were supposed to be way more familiar with this shit all things considered, but you've been wrong before.

It was his turn to give you a bit of a wide eyed look before he poorly covers a laugh, "alright, that's fair. I need to go talk with my captain," he hooks a thumb over his shoulder to the window, which didn't surprise you that there had been people back there. He offers a reassuring smile as he stands, humming idly as he pushes the chair back in. He pauses mid-step, "you mentioned that there were cards…?"

You find yourself nodding slowly, "yeah it was important and you couldn't fly or go to certain places if you didn't have one for a while. Should still have a picture of mine buried on my phone," you really didn't wanna get another first-round of covid shots, you REALLY didn't wanna repeat the 24 hours of suck for no reason.

"Cool, thanks," he flashes another charming grin before he slides out of the room.

You lean back in your chair, what an odd guy. Nice though.

-------

"Right," Gaz says as he opens the door to Price and Ghost, "either our mystery guest is off her nut or she's legitimately from somewhere and somewhen else."

Ghost and Price look at each other before turning back to Gaz, this… complicated matters.

Well, it's not like you hadn't given them information to identify yourself. They'd dig up who you were one way or another.

-------

You stare blankly as the nice man from before gives you a sympathetic look, "what do you mean I'm dead?"

Behind him is a guy you're not sure if he's just fuckoff huge or if he's just moderately huge and it's forced perspective.

You don't think it's forced perspective.

You are absolutely trying not to panic spiral.

You are absolutely doing a horrible job at that.

"Well," he opens the file before him and there's a news article, proudly proclaiming "Locals Die in Horrible Freak Accident" like that's not some form of you that was looking like some smear on the pavement, "there's this. Fingerprints match up. Can check for dental if you're really curious."

"Were there even any teeth left after that," you mumble as you take and read the offered article. Seven people were involved, the pictures used are mostly flattering. Hell, you almost don't mind what pic they used for an alternate you but… "that's certainly not the pic I would've wanted. Maybe this me had different tastes?"

You take the time to actually read through the article. It's not helping because for as much as you stare at the page you're not absorbing any information. Some form of detachment, if this was really you? You'd died. A different you but a you nonetheless. You died and you're reading how it happened. There was a lot to unpack in all this and you just needed to put the suitcase away for now. You'd much rather throw it away at this rate.

You were rapidly coming to the understanding that you and Toto were not in Kansas anymore, and there wasn't a convenient yellow brick road to get yourself back home. No easy way to get the hell out of Dodge either. Was it Dodge or the O.K. Corral that was in Kansas? No the O.K. Corral wasn't in Kansas- Dodge was though, that's right.

This analogy was getting away from you and some part of you figured this was just your brain trying to protect yourself but… wait, wasn't this a metaphor? There wasn't 'like' or 'as' or goddammit not again.

You recognize some names here and there but largely everyone involved were perfect strangers. The article doesn't cover if it would've been slow or quick. You hope for the smear that it was quick. Smears like that don't happen slowly, right? Well, not unless it's like a dramatic slide down a window, but not usually across pavement like that.

Still not sure how you feel about all of it. Bit morbid being confronted with your mortality like that.

Certainly answered a lot of questions about your theoretical passing you never thought about. Like if the obituary for you in what you know to be your own home and world is just as… really kinda just mediocre as this. Have you really done nothing of note for an obituary? Damn.

You kept pouring over the article, each pass bringing new words into focus that help connect the picture a little bit, but… Something repeated in the article made you pause, "two alphas, four betas, and an omega?"

There was no decent way to ask about that. Any questions invoked from here would border into dangerous territory better kept between yourself and a private browser history. You knew what you were about but there was no fucking way.

"Their designations," the nice man whose name you still hadn't caught explains, "mostly explaining their secondary gender."

You look at him owlishly. You pray to whatever God might be listening that you wake up shortly. Or that the earth below your feet opens up and swallows you. Whichever comes first, the mortification will snipe you otherwise.

"Please tell me this is an elaborate joke at my expense," you are very quiet as you are trying to get really cool with a lot of things really quickly.

"Negative," the big fucker in the back practically growled and you knew that voice would do things to you if you weren't half stepped out of your own body.

You missed whatever his followup was but your brow furrowed when you checked the date on the article, "I've been dead for months? That…" you let the paper fall from your hands. Everything about this is wild at best and very overwhelming at worst.

A lot of this qualified as worst.

You look up at the two, missing the odd look they shot at each other as you try to pull yourself back together, "so now what? You've got a not-a-smear of me that fell from the sky onto a secure military base, and where I'm from we didn't have," you paused to gesture between the paper and the two soldiers, "dynamics was it? That was just a fanfiction special."

"Fanfiction."

The way he said it was so carefully neutral you paused, "oh my god without Star Trek to popularize fanfiction and the fan community, how has fandom evolved? Is fanfiction a thing- well, yes, it does fanfics have been a thing since Dante Alighieri wrote the Divine Comedy and even before- well, the question is more if it's still popularized? Are there still the wattpad fics of- I am getting so off track. What exactly is the next step?"

You look from the nice man to the big fucker and back, neither saying anything but looking at you with careful blankness.

You felt like you were being weighed and measured in their eyes.

You hoped to anyone listening that you weren't found wanting at least. Not when you're in the shit situation it looks like you ever so increasingly fell into.

"Considering I'm. Not smear. And very much not from here? Are blanks a thing? Or is that what a beta is I'm," you trail off, brow furrowing, "fuzzy. On the whole thing. The flavor of understanding, dynamics, and population skew tended to be dependant on the author's level of horny."

The did get a bit of a snort from the pretty one before you, the one in the back tilting his head just so as the pretty one spurred you on, "okay please don't take this the wrong way, you have given me nothing to go on but A/B/O and-" a finger was raised in question to that, you quickly explaining, "the fanfic shorthand for the universe without being a mouthful. Anyway- I've seen population numbers being roughly the same across the board, I've seen alphas and omegas at roughly 1% of the population of society on either end, I've seen alphas at about 5% and omegas at 1%- those ones are usually the most horny I swear.

"And it's all over the board, no consistency- sometimes it's betas are infertile, sometimes they're the straightman to the comedy that's an alpha and omega trying to woo each other without being too horny to function. Sometimes it's a sliding scale where being beta just means you're more the more middle-ground regulated hormonally with alphas and omegas being the opposing ends of a spectrum. Can you please say something and give me a fucking break because my panic rambles are probably like. Some kinda prejudiced. I'm still not over the 'I'm supposed to be a smear on the ground we don't even have dental images of to confirm who it is anymore' nugget you dropped on me. I think I'm doing well for this"

You would rather not tell them that as soon as you're out of this box of a room you were gonna be curled up in a ball and unabashedly weeping. That was none of their business.

The pretty one gave you what you're sure was supposed to be a reassuring smile but the quiet stretched just a bit too long. You looked from one to the other before leaning forward, "is this supposed to be soothing in some way? Because it's just a bit of an extended awkward silence and that's uh-"

It was the big one in the back's turn to give an amused snort, the pretty one looking bashful, "right, sorry, we uh-"

You jerk a bit, "wait, was that supposed to be some scent thing," you really didn't wanna say pheromones and potentially dig yourself into a deeper, more awkward hole based on Horny Pseudoscience.

Pretty rubbed the back of his neck, "something like that. You really couldn't smell anything?"

You know the exact Face you're making. It's very much your 'I have told you this and I'm getting tired of having to repeat it' face. You can tell he clocks it but for the record, because to your mortification this has to be recorded, you simply give a succinct, "no, I haven't smelled anything. Not from you, not from him," you jerk your head towards the big fucker, "and not from douchebag from be- Williams! His name was Williams. Nothing. Really had no clue why you were fanning the door when you came in."

You sigh, rubbing the heels of your palms into your eyes, "okay. Assuming I'm not about to be put into past tense a second time. Do we have any idea what popped me out here?"

The sentences are stilted, you know you're getting more rattled the longer you're here but sue you alright it's been the worst six hours of your life here.

They just continue to look at you, pretty keeping a polite almost customer service look as big one just stares unceasingly.

"Right. Okay. Am I going to be reintegrated to society or is this," you gesture around the little room as much as you can, "looking like my home for the foreseeable future."

No change in what you can see of either's expression, and you just sag. Deep breath in, deep breath out, "cool. Alright. Well. I know nothing of how biology is altered here, I'm not sure how that has impacted changes throughout history, and frankly I don't know what your pop culture has done. I'm assuming math and written languages are largely the same but in all fairness I don't know what I don't know."

You just stare quietly at the table for a bit longer before looking back at the two of them, "is there anything else you need because I can feel the freakout creeping up and while I know there's no real privacy, uh…"

The pretty one looked back to the big one, at some point you're sure you'll get some sort of names but for now? Now you watch the big one nod, the pretty one give you a polite smile and some vaguely polite bullshit your brain is swiftly going too far out to hear.

You only hope that whoever is behind the mirror is polite enough to look away as you put your head down on the table and give yourself the opportunity to, just this once, cry. As a treat.

[Next Chapter -> ]

#rambles from the morgue #a for effort and all that

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