She/They -Side blog_ °â˘ââââ˘Â° +18This is where I put all of my writing ideas short and sometimes long ones, there will be NSFW content so be aware, still I will put warnings. dark themes may also be present-°â˘â
Yandere!King the Wildfire x F!Reader: Part1 ~ Part2 ~ Part3. Darling wanting to pleasure him back. Who has the highest chance of falling for King's s/o. Bloodlines.
King the Wildfire: NSFW Headcanons, Kinks. Fluff. Meeting anothers of his race. Biting his chest. Gentle s/o. Heats. Women. Dick Headcanons. Fire Headcanons. ''''x F!Readerâ In Modern AU. Adorable Pigeon. Puffed feathers/shield. Red Dead. Pregnancy. With a daughter. Human-like child. Queen. Outside Threats. Pregnant!s/o running away. ''''100 Followers specialâ Where On3 Will St4nd. Funny thoughts. Big Mom. Big Mom2. ''''x Gn!Readerâ Annoy. ''''x Straw hat!Gn!Readerâ Do Not F4lter.
King the Wildfire+Avatar: Hair.
King & Katakuri: Who is the bigger breeder? How many kids would they have?
Kaidou: Women.
Izou: x Gn!Reader: Love, Lust, Lick.
Portgas D. Ace: 'U' in Art.
Dracule "Hawk Eyes" Mihawk: x F!Readerâ Drunk Deeds.
Trafalgar D. Water Law: Fatherhood. Pregnancy. Tattoos.
Charlotte Katakuri: x F!Readerâ Monster's Voice Is Sweet To Hear. Father Headcanons.
"Black Leg" Sanji: x F!Reader: Sweets Full Of Lies. 'U' in Art.
Red Dead Redemption:
Kinktober 2025 List.
Charles Smith: Reunion.
Slam Dunk:
Rukawa Kaede: with Sakuragi!Reader. x Gn!Reader Headcanons.
Sakuragi Hanamichi: random Headcanons. ''''x Gn!ReaderâNot the Last Time.
Kicchou Fukuda: ''''x F!Readerâ Bros Ov3r Ho3s.
Mitsui Hisashi: Practicing with his s/o. Comforting his s/o.
Ryota Miyagi: x F!Readerâ 3 Years Younger.
Sendoh Akira: x Gn!Reader Headcanons. Relationship Headcanons.
Ao Ashi:
Akutsu Nagisa: ''''x Gn!Reader: Co0k Me a Meal, Make Me Starve.(Part1) Intentions(Part 2) Romance Headcanons. Fatherhood Headcanons.
Nozomi Date: As a Husband and a father of your child.
Zuko's chest on your back, sweat running down his throat and onto his pecs, hot air all around you, the firelord himself steaming like a sauna over your collapsed form, his deep breaths near your ears, his Adam's apple bobbing with every rise and fall of his bulky form, the heat getting both of you wet every time your skin grazes his. Although the firelord adorns his body in red every day, the color looks the best on his face.
The chances of passing out mid-sex from a heatstroke may be high, but not high enough to stop you from bending his body as you desire. And the lord will only be able to obey.
I love your mer invincible stuff sm!! I hope you write more! (´^Ď^`)
Aw, thank you! I'm really glad so many ppl love it! This has been growing mold at the back of my fridge (drafts) for like 5 months I'm sorryyy
Part 3 of this post
"You do know there's a chance he'll suffocate me, right?"
"I have four men with dart guns trained on that beast. Heâll be unconscious before you so much as drop the fish, let alone scream, kid. Besides, I trust you know his signs better than I do.â
He's right. As always.
Your hands are going to smell like fish for the rest of the day.
The thought comes uninvited, absurdly mundane compared to everything else, and yet it anchors you as your fingers tighten around the handle of the metal bucket. It's not the smell that's causing discomfort though, after staying at sea for longer stretches of time, you've come to know the essence of fish far too intimately than you'd like.
The cold bites into your skin as you step up to the edge of the tank, boots stopping just shy of the slick line where water has splashed over and dried in uneven streaks. You shouldâve said no.
Even now, you can still hear the echo of your own better judgment, buried under layers of curiosity and something far more reckless. But itâs too late for that.
Youâre here. Your eyes glance back to the men now armed wih tranquilizers. They're here. their fingers probably already resting too comfortably near triggers. A safe procedure made of sedation and bad decisions.
He's here. And heâs watching you.
The slow circle Mark had been tracing tightens the moment you appear above him. Itâs subtle at firstâa slight adjustment in his path, a shallower arcâbut then it becomes unmistakable. His movements sharpen with purpose, the lazy drift replaced by something more focused, more⌠aware.
Anticipation.
You exhale slowly through your nose, lowering yourself into a crouch at the tankâs edge. The metal bucket follows, dipping just enough that its shadow ripples across the waterâs surface.
âEasyâŚâ You mutter, though your pulse is anything but.
You hate it.
Mark surfaces in a slow glide, far smoother than anything his size should manage in such a confined space. The water parts around him with barely a sound, his pale sides ghosting into view beneath the darker surface before his head breaks through.
Up close like this, the damage is harder to ignore.
The bandaging. The stiffness in the way he holds himself. The faint, uneven rhythm of his breathing. The poor thing.
Your grip tightens on the bucket handle.
âHey,â you say, quieter now.
His eyes find you immediately.
Not the bucket. Not your hands.
You.
Thereâs a pauseâlonger than it should be. Long enough for doubt to creep in, cold and unwelcome as it pulls on your composure.
Then his tail flicks. A small motion. Careful. Controlled.
Closer.
You swallow, shifting your weight as you finally reach into the bucket. The fish is slick in your hand, cold and pliant, and for a fleeting second, the thought hits hardâ
You could still walk away.
Climb down. Hand the bucket off. Let the staff handle it the way they always doâdistant, detached, safe. Clinical.
Isnât this enough already?
He didnât lunge. Didnât thrash. Didnât show even a flicker of the violence carved into his bloodline. For a creature born of an apex predator, raised under one, that restraint alone should be proof enough of something extraordinary.
Youâve documented less and called it groundbreaking.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the fish.
This could be where you stop.
Where you keep the boundary intact. Researcher and subject. Human and mer. Safe lines, clearly drawn.
Because the next stepâ
The next step is different.
Itâs not really observation anymore.
You lift it slowly, deliberately, keeping your movements measured. No sudden jerks. No looming. Just⌠present with food in your hand.
Markâs gaze drops this time.
Tracks the fish.
Then flicks back up to your face.
You huff out a shaky breath. âPolite, huh?â
Another inch closer. Heâs right beneath you now, close enough that you can see the subtle tension along his jaw, the way his body holds just a fraction too stillâlike heâs ready to bolt if something goes wrong.
Good.
Stay like that.
âAlright,â You murmur, lowering your hand toward the water. âSame rules as before. No headbutting myââ
The tip of his snout breaches the surface.
Your spine stiffens instantly, every muscle locking as the reality snaps back into focus and into precision.
There's mechanical sounds behind you.
Water laps gently against your fingers as you hover just above him, the fish dangling between you. For a split second, neither of you moves. The world narrows to the space between your hand and his mouth, to the faint sound of water shifting against reinforced glass, to the distant, almost imperceptible hum of equipment behind you.
Thenâ
A soft nudge.
Not your hand.
The fish.
He takes it carefully.
No snap. No rush. Just a slow, deliberate motion, lips brushing your fingers for the briefest second as he pulls it from your grip.
You donât breathe until heâs already sinking back under.
The tension in your shoulders releases all at once, leaving behind a strange, hollow lightness. â...Okay,â You whisper, more to yourself than anyone else.
Behind you, thereâs movement, someone shifting, exhaling, but no one interrupts.
Good.
Because youâre not done.
Mark circles again, tighter this time. Faster, but not erratic. Thereâs something different in it nowâless hesitation, more certainty. When he surfaces again, itâs closer. Closer than before.
Too close, maybe.
You reach into the bucket again, slower this timeânot because youâre afraid, but because youâre thinking.
This is the line.
You can feel it now, clearer than ever.
The space between observer and participant.
Between researcher⌠and something else.
As you lift the second fish, water dripping from your fingers, Mark is already thereâwatching, waiting, that same sharp awareness locked onto you like youâre the only thing in the room that matters.
And this timeâ
He doesnât hesitate.
I love you all who waited for this, I know it's small but It's all I could manage atm :( @weponxwrites @i-love-frensh-fries @acheronlovely
I will not be falling for TOP!Reiner Braun propaganda, if it's not a world ending threat or a top 10 best characters of all anime tier list he's not topping anythingâźď¸âźď¸
Omegaverse, but instead of Viltrumites having secondary genders, it's humans.
Since he is part-Viltrumite, Mark can pass as a Beta due to his scent being indistinguishable. It's a mix of his mother's and those closest to him. He's like a blank slate, not entirely Beta, because they do have necessary scent glands to produce some light pheromones.
Don't get me wrong, he has the scent glands, but not the scent that comes with it. Instead, they pick up on the pheromones around them. WITH the emotions they're conveying.
His mother's intense lavender scent, screaming concern for him? Mark has it.
Amber's peachy loving caramel? Yep.
Rex Splode's scent of a fireplace with the hint of syrup that oozes cockiness? Check.
William's excited peppermint? Done.
It depends on how long he spends being around them. And since his scent isn't natural it can really easily be replaced. A one sleepover is all it takes. People often get confused, since they smell Atom Eve's cherry blossom opening the door, but she's nowhere in sight, instead they see Mark walk in, stinking of her scent.
It's completely out of his or anyone's control.
However. It's also very uncanny, because Mark could be beating a villain black and blue while smelling like roses and rainbows, or he could have an emotional conversation that doesn't fit the sweet lavender he's "emitting." After all without a scent of his own how can anyone tell what he's truly feeling?
Idk I like the thought of people imprinting their emotions/scents on Mark.
Dispatcher reader who is desperately trying to dispatch mark but Mark wants to take care of Eve (she has a mild headache)
This is a joke ask but crack taken seriously is an interesting trope.
The only way I can see Mark working for the dispatcher!Reader or SDN as a whole is after his fall-out with Cecil, it makes a lot of sense for Mark to accept an invitation from a hero agency that's independent from the government.
He has less intel on occurring crime, training is a bit harder while being an unconventional hero, and he doesn't have the necessary resources so it takes him prolonged periods of time to respond to any illegal activity.
Meanwhile, Reader, an ex-vigilante or ex-hero, is working at SDN as a dispatcher and overhears something about a new hero who the public is calling Invinciboy, an imitation of Invincible, who currently seems to be MIA. He doesn't work with any agencies or organizations and depsite being a knock-off invinciboy does hold his own in battles, in addition to his skills California could use some extra hands.
After putting in the word to Blonde Blazer, you wait for his answer.
Now, IN DEFENCE of Mark, I want to imagine that the reader plays a major role in how he acts during the invasion of the Invincible variants. Cecilâs cold approach to both Markâs hero life and personal life draws out a stubborn streak in him. He doesnât trust Cecil, he doesnât relate to the old man and after the stunt Cecil pulled just to get through to him, Mark is angry to the point of recklessnessâbordering on forgetfulness and outright disregard for his heroic responsibilities.
Because the reader was also a hero on the front lines, I think Mark would hold a great deal of respect for them. His familiarity with their legacy would play a major role in whether he listens to their advice at allâunlike Cecilâs detached, utilitarian mindset of âyou can be a good guy, or you can be the guy who saves the world.â
The reader, I imagine, would be far more familiar with the emotional weight of being a heroâthe cost, the fear, and the responsibility that comes with leaving your injured close friends behind to defend the innocent, who you have not interacted with whatsoever. With the right words, and careful prodding in the right direction, they could reach Mark in a way Cecil never would. After all, heâs a hero for a reason, and what kind of hero would Mark be if he allowed the world to suffer without him there to stop it?
Eventually, Mark would snap out of his anger and stubbornness and find his way back to where he belongs.
now,a hybrid mer mohawk mark and others variants? maybe? at some point? just an idea? đĽşđđ˝đđ˝
Hybrid!Mohawk Mark with Narwhal-Mer!Reader...
Being lost at sea, separated from your pod and lacking even the most basic survival skills, is as good as signing your own death sentence. Current after current sweeps you into waters you never planned to venture, and the farther you drift, the more your hope of returning to your pod seems to dwindle. Not to mention that a lone Narwhal is a sight not many see. So it attracts unwanted attention.
Thereâs a mer stalking you, he's twice as big as you. Following every shift of your tail while keeping just below and behind you. At first, you assume heâs hunting youâwhy else would he hover so close? You tried to bolt away, pouring your last remaining strength into a single desperate burst, but he kept pace with infuriating ease. And when your stamina finally gave out, he only slowed, drifting in wide, deliberate circles around your trembling, anxiety-ridden body. A huge grin plastered on his face.
A silent mer is a successful hunter, and yet your⌠company hasnât shut up once.
Chirps, whistles, and trembling trills drift up from the water beneath you, sounds so unfamiliar you canât decipher whether theyâre warnings or songs.
You veer left; he mirrors you. You slow; he slows more. A long, warbling whistle rises from belowâtoo soft for an orca, too deep for a beluga. He emits clicking patterns that mimic your calls and mess with your instincts. If you rest, he stops moving entirely, hovering like a guard.
He tends to vanish after your failed hunts, slipping away when your fear is at its peak and your morale is at its lowest, only to return moments later with the very prey you were chasing clenched between his sharp, webbed claws. Pushing the food towards your direction with too much enthusiasm.
Your acceptance of his offering ignites something inside him, and he doesnât bother to hide it. He rolls onto his back, pectoral fins stretching open in a bold display, hands laced behind his head like he owns the entire sea, satisfaction blatant on his face. Cocky doesnât even begin to cover it.
Not even an hour after he fed you, heâs already chipping away at your nerves, steadily working to narrow the distance between you and him despite all your careful attempts to keep it wide.
He drifts too close to your tail fin, and you feel the graze of his sharp fingers along your spotted skinâlight enough not to pierce, but enough for you to throw him a glance, to which he gets the hint and slightly backs away.
Not for long though, never for long.
He moves nearer, hesitating for a moment before letting the length of his tail brush softly against yours, skin gliding across skin. Itâs almost awkward, like heâs unsure how much pressure to use, unsure if youâll pull away. But he tries anyway. His inverted orca patterns trace your spotted length with a warm, unhurried stroke. Itâs not forceful. Not aggressive. Just⌠close. Too close. A gesture meant for someone who understands what it signifiesâand you definitely donât. Still, when his soft touch drifts along your tail again, followed by a deep orca rumble that melts into a high, soothing beluga whisper, you catch the unmistakable shape of his name echoing through the water.
Your lips struggle to repeat it, forming the faintest imitation of his nameâbarely a breathâright as he pulls back from you.
Mark. Call me Mark.
It takes you far too long to realize that he wasn't stalking you.
He has been trying to court you.
đłđŹđł
I haven't read the comics yet so I apologize I know this seems a bit out of character... Also, it is important to me that you're aware of Narluga's existence. Yes, they're beluga x narwhal hybrids which are all too adorable.
Hybrid-mer!Mark was taken into the care of the Global Defence of Aquatics (GDA) soon after your call. The merâtwice the weight of a beluga and nearly twice the sizeâshowed almost no sign of life as they hauled him up in the reinforced net, blood and seawater streaming off his upper body in thin, steady rivulets.
You couldnât even tell where the injuries ended and the blubber beneath his thick skin began, the swarm of medical personnel clustered around the deck blocked your view.
He seemed completely lifeless, even as the crew struggled to lower his massive body into the deck tankâa tank meant for smaller merfolk species, and clearly not built for something Markâs size. The reinforced glass bowed under his weight, far too tight a fit, but the mer didnât react to the claustrophobic pressure at all. He lay there motionless, unconscious, his blood-soaked tail curled awkwardly against the walls. If it wasn't for tiny bubbles around his mouth slowly drifting to the surface, you would've thought he died.
They're going to transfer him into a facility that can accommodate his size, medicate and quarantine him until full recovery, and release him back into the wild.
That's the plan. The only plan you're aware of. The plan that Cecil told you while also being careful not to promise anything that might contradict his words some time in the future.
You donât like it, actually, you canât stand it. Every extra word you have to force out of Cecil about their choice of facility grates on your nerves. But arguing wonât change anything, and it still beats the alternative, which is Mark bleeding out in a tiny tank after taking the beating of a lifetime from his own sire.
In the end, the old man gives in, allowing you to tag along to the facility and document your account of the incident with a wrinkle between his eyebrows that never fades despite his mood.
"Attached" He called you, trying to make sense of your worry. And you couldn't help but agree with him, answering the comment with a shrug of your shoulders and a roll of your eyes, because the last thing you'll do is agree with Cecil. Vocally, at least.
The first couple of days in the sanctuary were tough on the injured mer, who slowly drifted from one corner of the bare tank to the other, almost like a manateeâhe was either saving energy or was in too much pain to move any of his fins after the surgeries. Not to mention that the bandages wrapped around him from tail to head kept him tightly restricted.
So far from the energetic creature you'd known him to be.
@weponxwrites
Thankfully, his condition stabilized after two weeks, and he seemed lucid, reactive to humans, as well as the bareness of the tank.
You couldnât stay with him for more than a day at a timeâyou still had to work. Debbie needed monitoring now more than ever, anxiously circling the same stretch of territory Nolan had once claimed. The worried mer kept calling for her son, for her mate, her voice echoing through the water only to be met with silence each time. She even came up to your research boat at one point, circling just beneath the surface as if trying to catch the scent of her pup. When her head broke the water and she saw only you standing there, her hopeful posture collapsed into something defeated. Without a sound, she slipped back into the depths.
Debbie wasnât the only one struggling with the absence of the other, though.
Mark has been keeping his distance, hovering in the far corner like he expected the walls to close in on him. His tail flicked slowly and uneasily, never fully relaxed. Every human movement was met with caution. He too, kept making noise, whistles and moos that went unanswered.
But the moment he noticed you, standing just behind the medical staff, holding some papers, something shifted in his expression. His posture straightened, pupils widening with a faint spark of recognition. Hard to tell. His species mix made reading expressions almost impossible, yet you knew he wasnât indifferent to you.
His family had always been aware of you, but once they realized you meant no harm, Nolan left your little boat alone, showing a bit of mercyâafter hounding you relentlessly, circling the hull, and nearly giving you a heart attack the first dozen times. Before his aggressive episode, they even left giftsâpenguin carcasses, half-eaten dolphins, which you hesitantly swam away from.
The adults kept to themselves. Mark, however, was overcome with curiosity and a streak of disobedience. Youâd known for a long time that the little bumps against your boat werenât drifting ice, or a stray wave, or even Nolan checking in to make sure you were still as harmless as the last time heâd inspected you.
They were him. The inquisitive pup who couldnât resist poking at the strange creature floating on the surface.
Sometimes heâd nudge the hull so gently you barely felt it. Other times heâd ram it with enough enthusiasm to jolt you forward in your seat. And on the rare days when he was feeling bold, youâd catch a flash of white just under the waterlineâhis tail, his grin, his whole body tilting like he wanted you to chase him.
Even then, heâd risked his fatherâs wrath just to get a closer look at what you were.
Perhaps heâd heard you speak through the glass, recognized your voiceâthe same one that had called out from the strange platformâand connected the dots. It wouldnât be strange; after all, he was a hybrid of two highly intelligent mer species.
"Think he knows?â Cecilâs voice was low as he stepped beside you, his gaze flicking to Markâs sharp eyes.
âAbout what?â You asked, keeping your tone casual.
âAbout you,â He said, almost under his breath, âI mean⌠does he know who you are?â
You didnât answer. Your eyes stayed locked on Mark, trying to read the hybrid, but his expression gave nothing away. The silence stretched, thick and uneasy, and the way Mark stared blankly in your direction only seemed to spike Cecilâs interest. His gaze flicked between you and the tank, curiosity written in every line of his face. The old man wanted to tell you something, and you found yourself praying he wouldnât. Every flick of Mark's tail, the unblinking glance, felt like a recognitionâand the last thing you wanted was whatever Cecil had to say.
You sighed, feeling pinned under the manâs sharp gaze, as if there were no other choice. The words left your mouth before you could stop them.
âWhat is it?â
Cecilâs eyes flicked to the tank for a fraction of a second, then back at you.
Deciding fish species for mermaids is so hard, like I could totally go for a Blue Tang for Mark/white and red koi for Nolan cause, y'know Invincible and suits, but I really like the "Viltrumites are killer whales of the mer world" idea.
Nolan's needless bloodshed fits right in with orca's natural behavior. If wild orcas are trying to domesticate humans, what makes you think they won't try to domesticate other mer species? "She was more like a pet to me."
Belugas are everything we believe dolphins are and better. They're smart, vocal and adorable. Belugas also show curiosity towards humans in the wild, and frequently swim alongside boats! It suits Debbie.
They're both whales, meaning that they give birth to live young and I guess are more compatible?
Inspired by the đ from a different fandom @rawme-price
Thinking about marine biologist!Reader who has been closely observing a family of merfolk for a couple of years, studying how interspecies dynamics work among merfolk, and who becomes one of the first to notice and monitor the father orcaâs unusual behavior from a safe distance.
Itâs a known fact that father orcas donât stick around to raise their pups, choosing instead to mate and quickly rejoin their own pod. So finding one who has stayed with his family is a remarkable discovery, one that could change how humans view mer-species as a whole.
However, interspecies mating involving orcas is virtually unheard of, making this individualâwhom youâve affectionately named Nolanâan anomaly on two separate fronts.
They were an odd pair to study. In the wild, every recorded meeting between a beluga and an orca ends the same wayâviolently. Not them though. Never has Nolan displayed aggressive behaviour against his mate, Deborah or his not-yet full-grown offspring, which you named Mark. Perhaps that's why you've stuck around them, watching and learning how they lived, which frankly was far better than some human families.
For an apex predator such as him, you often wondered how your boat was still standing.
Everything was going well,
Until something set him off. Maybe his sonâs instincts which he was still getting the hang of, triggered something in the fully grown orca, or a hunting attempt to which he let Mark tag along had fallen through, making the father snap and bare his fangs more often than not, even his mate's calls weren't enough to calm him down. The longer you observed, the more his nature as a killer whale became visible.
One moment, he and his son were following a whale, and the next, his massive tail whipped through the waterâs surface like a lash, sending a wave that rattled your observation kat. Your antennae picked up Markâs squeaks of alarmâhe had probably instinctively dove lowâwhile the father circled above. You could only see Nolan's elongated dorsal fin cut through the water in tight, deliberate arcs, sometimes vanishing into the depths only to resurface with a shocking spray of blood trailing behind him. Was it the whale's? Mark's? You could only watch in horror as he tore through something beyond the water.
Even when the orca dove down for the final time, your boat stayed far, far from the scuffle, anchored by caution and the weight of unspoken rules. Yet your heart thumped with a persistent, gnawing uneaseâsomething was wrong, off. The discolored water wasnât dissipating as it should; the dark streaks kept spreading, widening into a stain that refused to blend with the surrounding ocean.
Deciding youâd given enough time, you guided your small observation boat closer, antennae twitching as you triangulated Markâs position. The closer you got, the more your stomach sankâthe swirling water was dark with blood. There he was, barely conscious, lying in a cratered rock as if it had been formed by the force of his beating. His limbs hung weakly at his sides, his beluga-white tail streaked crimson. Even through the water, his face looked battered, worse than you could have imagined.
He couldnât recover here. Injured beyond recognition, exhausted, and without food, he didnât stand a chanceâand you couldnât stay frozen anymore, not with a mer struggling to breathe in the water. You couldnât let him die. Not like this. Not someone so precious, so small, so alive with potential.
Fumbling in your pocket, you dialed the number you knew could get him helpâyour hands shaking as every second stretched too long.
Despite his rare interactions with you, Charles knew your weird habitsâafter all, you never made any effort to hide them from the camp. Maybe youâd been with the gang for so long that your shame just disappeared whenever you were around them, how they saw you mattered little to you. In any case, he knew that Van der Lindes were an odd bunch, as odd as thieves and murderers could be. Not to mention that it was harder for him to miss your habits, considering your tent was next to his, Charles was bound to get used to them sooner or later.
Unconsciously paying attention to those around him was a skill he had improved long ago.
That knowledge about habits, however, came to him later than heâd like to admitâaround the time everything went astray with the gang. When there were no songs left to sing along to, no semblance of companionship, only the remnants of each member scattered around Beaver Hollow, and a tension that seeped into every interaction. You werenât an exceptionâyour once easy-going voice had shifted into silence or quiet withdrawal every time you returned to camp, empty-handed, lazier than you used to beâthat is, if you returned at all. Charles doesn't blame anyone for leaving, he too decided to get his priorities straight after Lakay. However, when he did find time to come backâusually ushered by Rains Fall to return to his familyâyou weren't there. Your spot next to his tent empty and cold.
Unlike in Clemens Point, there was no one to side-eye when he woke up in Beaver Hollow, sweating from the heat and disturbed by the sight of a thick blanket over your shouldersâstill draped over you as if you were trapped in a snowy hellscape called Colter. Only the empty fabric of that blanket, neatly folded under the tiny table, met his gaze in the morning. Untouched. Unused. He remembered overhearing your justification to Susan. He had been busy skinning a pronghorn Arthur had dragged in when the elder lady decided she had a bone to pick with you about the heavy blanket being too difficult to wash in this swamp. Your answer was an odd oneâsomething about the pressure and warmth helping you sleep. It didnât matter that you were in Clements Point, where the heat made everyone just a tad more prone to violence.
At least it kept the mosquitoes away. He reckoned you a self-inflicted masochistâsomeone whoâd take the hard way out simply because you could. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.
There were no shuffling sounds coming from your tent late at night to signal that you were wide awakeâno unbuttoning of the flap, no soft steps to count on your way to the fireplace, feeding the flames with the wood heâd chopped. He never managed to stay awake long enough to witness your return to the tent. Embarrassingly lulled to sleep by your quiet humming.
And there was no one to accompany him late at night, when everyone else was asleepâhim alone, sitting around the fire with a sharpened knife in one hand and a lump of wood in the other, slicing away into a shape he couldnât even recognize. Sometimes, the restless shuffling from your tent would pause, giving him the false impression that youâd finally fallen into unconsciousnessâbut then youâd emerge, and heâd return to his sculpting, keeping an ear out for any tune you might hum under your breath. Charles wasted away the nights in conversations whose topics he couldnât even remember. It helped him get to know youâto realize that you were a decent person, the kind he could respect and trust to have his back, if not in battle, then outside of it because despite sticking close to the gang, you didnât seem to care much for murderâa notion further reinforced by the fact that you were a poor shot.
No wonder you were permanently banned from guard duty.
Charles missed those times, although deep inside he knew they wouldn't last.
You left sometime after Uncle did. It was a miracle he was still in the camp. You only bothered to inform Charles of your departure, making sure to slip in an apology to Arthur and asking Charles to deliver those words for you.
Of course, he wished you well, just as he did Uncle. You might've been a masochist but you were clever.
He didn't think too much about you after that. Too caught up in doubting Dutch and dealing with the consequences of it all. His mind felt heavy, but Arthur's rotting body felt heavier in his hands.
Helping the tribe was good for him. Even with the stares he got after the whole gang fell apart, it kept his mind and body occupied with something other than anger and violence. He still needed to pull his weight, and for that, he was desperate for moneyâmoney for the tribe and a selfish outlet for himself.
He found work in the city, where thereâs always someone in need of an extra pair of hands. He wiped tables, hauled cargo, broke horsesâand took his time indulging himself away from Rains Fallâs heavy yet caring, almost concerned gaze. But none of the honest work satisfied him. The pay was meager, the effort endless, and it all made his hands itch, even though he hates to admit it.
Violence has a way of finding him, no matter where he runs. It found him young, surrounded by his people. It found him again in the slums of Saint Denis. And this time, Charles welcomes it.
Thereâs always money to be made, and someoneâs face to be pummeled.
He hones his hand-to-hand combat skillsânot that he was ever bad at it, but thereâs no harm in improving. He pushes himself harder and harder, until a coach finally takes him under his wing. He remained occupied after that. No longer did he have the time to think about the past, not Mary-Beth or Sadie or Pearson or John. Although he had learned that Tilly was somewhere in Saint Denis, the last heâd heard, John had killed a man. Maybe it was a good thingâactually lying low for once.
When his knuckles were scarred beyond recognition and calluses bloomed on nearly every inch of his hands, he came acrossâor was discovered by a familiar, scarred face. John pleasantly surprised him, not only with news about setting himself straight, but also that Uncle and you, of all people, were sharing the property. Abigail and Jack nowhere in sight. One match and a shootout later, he was riding with him to the sad shack Marston called home.
Despite what heâd thought about reunions years agoâwhen the wound was fresh and the anger was rawâheâd never imagined it would feel as oddly soothing as it did. Uncleâwell, he was Uncle, always keeping his wits about him closer than his bottle of booze. Johnâalone now, taller, with an air of sourness around him. Charles likes to think he hasnât changed much, aside from growing his hair out the same way it was seven years ago. He might seem rougher, tougher, and more reclusive to strangers, but never to you, John, or Uncle. He was the same quiet man.
Although you. You seemed grown, healthy in a way you couldn't be with the gang. Hair styled in an unfamiliar, put-together style. It's a change and a nice one at that. Even your voice sounds lively as you welcome him, standing next to the run-down shack, so unlike the memories he recalls. No longer is he staring at a person weighed down with hollow promises and vile mood of the camp, forced to guard themselves from people they'd considered family not too long ago. Instead, you're open than ever and more notablyâhappy to see him alive.
It remains as a reminder of how good it was, even though he'd spent less time with the gang than most.
But it's over now, that time is long buried with the casualties, and for once, sitting around the campfire, with Uncle's banjo accompanying the cheap booze in his hand, the memories don't tighten the wires around his throat.
Johnâs somewhere behind him, occupied with something or other while you sit directly across from himâhair mussed from the dayâs work, despite the men insisting you should step aside and leave the heavy lifting to them, you keep at your quiet organizing throughout the day, putting nails where they belong and explaining the blueprint to the men. Trading glances his way in the process.
Charles' cheeks are faintly flushed, but the spark that leaps between you whenever your eyes meet, cuts straight through the haze.
Amidst Uncle's singing, he hears that familiar hum return.
Taking another gulp of booze, he can feel your eyes flicker between him and the fireâobserving, waiting for him to join. In return, his gaze wanders to you, admiring your features now painted in the oranges and yellows of the flame.
And for the first time in seven years, with the last few people who still know the man he used to be, Charles stirs, voice emitting from somewhere deep inside his heart.
Ahaha haha, what no I'm not thinking about Charles throwing Micah to the ground within seconds, I swear I'm not thinking about how easily he'd throw you over his shoulder or pull down your pants while you're clinging to his torso mid-air, you're the one thinking that not me
Oh my gooood finally I have been waiting YEARS for somebody to fall for Fukuda in the same way I did. Like my obsession has reached a constant where he is justâŚconsistently top #1. Would you write ANY NFSW thoughts u got on him??? Like I just know he is so sleazy and touch starved and hoe-less (i mean this in the most loving way possible)
Idk how long this has been in my asks, I apologize for the late answer but YES! I just KNOW he gets no bitches, literally the only one who has contact with a woman regularly is Benzen and no one cares about himđ Please forgive me and keep ao ashi asks coming!!!
There is nothing you can do to make him feel a sense of shame. Scold him for being too eager, and heâd only look at you with those heavy-lidded eyes, his voice a low hum of agreement. "Of course I am," he'd say, as if stating a simple truth. "Look at you. How could I be anything else?"
Every attempt to call him out, to gain the upper hand through teasing, backfires. There was no space for your teasing to land because he would never deny the accusation. Instead, he would amplify it, and reflect it back at you with such intense, genuine appreciation that the heat would instantly flood your own cheeks.
You'd call him "impatient," and he'd counter, "I've been patient all day. Thinking about this. About you. Forgive me if the reality is better than the fantasy." The tables wouldn't just turn; they'd leave you breathless and flustered, the blush adorning your cheeks. He would trace the warmth with his thumb, that smug smirk playing on his lips as his gaze says everything his words didn't need to.
Fukuda is intense in the way he loves. Whenever your back is pressed against his chest, his hips meeting yours with deep, driving thrusts that force your body to arch. He steals your breath with every impact, only to push a new gasp back into you. And beneath it all, you feel itâthat terrifying, singular focus thrumming through his body into yours. Itâs the same ruthless concentration he has on the field, only now, you are the only goal that exists.
His vocal in a way that a wolf dog might be. The growls which rip from his throat are pure animal reflexes, a direct result of your body tightening around him. Itâs a raw, gut-deep sound that speaks of a pleasure so intense it can't be contained. Lost in the sensation, every harsh exhale is punctuated by the slick, feral sound of his tongue dragging across his teeth. This is followed by a sharp, loud hiss as he draws a deep, starving inhale over the skin of your shoulder, the sound vibrating through you before he drives back in with hungry force.
I do like to think that there's a particular pleasure Fukuda finds in reverse position. While he loves the raw, animalistic drive of thrusting into you from behind, there's a deeper attraction when the roles are reversed. When your palm plants firmly on his chest, pushing him deeper into the softness of the bed and pillows, a shiver of pure anticipation courses through him, biting his bottom lip Fukuda gladly gives up the control, ready and eager for you to have your way with him.
His gaze is a physical caress, trailing from the determined set of your jaw down to the curve of your hips. He loves the power you hold, a power he willingly gives you. And through it all, his lips curve into that infuriatingly smug smirk. A proof of unadulterated satisfaction. His bedroom eyes, glazed with pleasure, lock with yours, silently communicating what he feels: that there is nowhere in the world he would rather be.
Fukuda's gaze is relentless. He is watching, always as a flush spreads across your complexion in real time, his eyes locked on yours while he reduces you to a shuddering, overwhelmed mess. He prefers positions that grant him this viewâMissionary, Cowgirl, G-whiz, The Lazy Manâall to ensure he misses nothing.
Dutch is so fine, I wish he wasnât a total turdâ Iâm such a hater >:( IELTS is done and over with so I can keep posting regularly again, apologies for the pause!
Word count: 2.3k
    The door to the room had not yet closed itself when Dutchâthe imposing, charming Dutch â had you pressed against the wall. His calloused hands felt heavenly against your overheated skin, leaving a tingling sensation like cool water on a hot summer night, briefly satisfying before fading and leaving you yearning for more. All the while, he stole your breath with a kissâsoft lips and the light tickle of his mustache making your head spin from the intricate endeavor.
Your attempts to get him to undress were met with his palms directing your wandering hands elsewhere, until at long last, he had them pressed firmly against the wall, persistent in his control with the way he turned you chest-first on the chilly wood.
The building tension was insufferable, but the texture of fabric on your bum was aggravating.
    âDutch,â You whined, prolonging the vowel, âTurn me around.â Though said in a demanding manner, he could pick up on the begging tint in between your voice, âlet me take care of youâ is what you mean, âlet me undress youâ and if it was any other day, he wouldâve caved to your alluring plea.
âMaking demands now arenât you, my dear?â he murmurs, the question rhetorical and dripping with amusement. His finger ghosting over your throat.
You let out a sigh, itâs clear he has no intention of giving up control.
âToo bad, too damn bad.â He whispers, voice gruff.
He discards the top half of his clothing, the velvet vest resting somewhere you canât see. The proximity he puts between your bodies to free himself of fabricâalthough smallâis more frustrating the longer he takes. What mustâve been seconds lasts more than youâd like and as you plan to resist his hands holding your arms separate, he collapses a part of his weight on your back.
Itâs unexpected and if it hadnât been for his hands stabilizng your legs, youâd have fallen over.
    His bare chest presses against your spine, chest hairs prominent as they glide across the surface of your body. His left hand drifts across your hip, rubbing the warmth emanating from you and stirring the desperation in your gut.Â
He finds you more appealing when youâre like this, hands and legs trembling where they stand all because heâs the one making them do that. Nothing ever comes close to the satisfaction of having you begging for a release heâs bound to give one way or another. âItâs a matter of time.â As he says.
Then his digits trek across your belly all the way up to your nipple, firmly grasping the bud in his thumb and pointer finger, kneading and pulling the sensitive skin, forcing you to arch further in his hold. His fondling dragging out sounds from you that you canât believe belong to you.Â
"Ain't you a pretty thing, bent over and presentable," he murmured, his voice lowering. His nibble on your ear made the hairs on your neck stand on end.Â
"All for my eyes.â
His hunger, once carefully concealed, now unveiled itself completely. Yet, with every ounce of your will, you denied it. Your attention was captive to the hidden bulge pressed snugly against your naked groin, a firm presence that held your thighs apart. His domineering stanceâcommanding and absolute without a single wordâalong with his continuous advances on your chest, made your head spin.
âYou ever seen yourself like this?â Like a mess he means, all wet and needy for his touch, ready to unravel if he doesnât push himself into you soon.
Before he could repeat himself, you swayed your head from side to side, hoping he would quit with the questions and take care of you already. Unfortunately, Dutch had a different plan in mind.
âWell,â he said, âainât that a shame.â Even though you were facing away from him, you could feel an amused smile creeping onto his lips.Â
The second hand on your hip trailed up your side, skittering over your ribs and across your chest until Dutch had both of his hands wrapped firmly around your throat. It wasn't to choke you, but to remind youâa quiet testament to your trust. Somewhere along the way, your palms also found their way onto the backside of his hands, coaxing him to do down, down, down where you need him.
He yanks your torso upward suddenly, stringing your spine straight as he forces your head back against his shoulder. The jolt drives your nails into his forearms, and a confused sound escapes your tightening throat. Your head spins from the force, the sharp ache in your spine vanishing a moment later. When the pressure lifts, the stars clear from your vision, leaving you staring into his eyes.
    Your position has changed; no longer are you facing a cold wallâinstead, you're gazing into the large mirror in front of you with a handful of bedsheets under your fingers, the flat object reflecting his expression over your pitiful stance. A sound of embarrassment slips from your lips, you hadn't expected his train of thought to go here, and it becomes ever clearer as your face flushes red. There's nothing you want more than to look away from the sight, but his hand keeps your head from turning, forcing your glazed-over pupils to stare and take in the state he has twisted you into.
His hand doesn't ease, even as your trembling grows along with his pressureâevery breath, every twitch reflected back in clarity. He leans closer, his voice is low, a whisper meant only for your ears.
âDon't look away,â He murmurs, gazing at you through the mirror while his chin, enhanced with rough stubble, pushes against your cheek, kissing along your soft skin.Â
âDutch,â You moan, your voice trembling as you remain physically unable to look away from the sight of him.Â
With his form draped over you, observing him is the least you can do. The mirror leaves little to the imaginationâevery strand of hair on his chest visible to the attentive eye, the skin on his face a shade darker that gradually lightens as it trails down his throat, fading into the paler tones hidden beneath his clothes. The tension that drags out sweat from both of your bodies glistening with every tiny action.
"DutchâŚ" His name is a final, breathless plea on your lips as you tilt your head, yielding to the relentless trail of his kisses along your jaw. Your body betrays your weak protestâa frantic gasp arches your spine, pressing your breast firmly into the warm, waiting cradle of his palm. You feel the faint tremor in his handâa stark contrast to the deliberate control in his touchâand know the same desperate want coursing through your veins is trudging through his. You see every pulse reflect on the mirror.
His thumb stroked once, a slow, deliberate circle over your nipple that pulled a broken sound from your throat. It was an answer and permission all at once. The last shred of your resistance dissolved as his mouth finally found yours, silently commanding to open up for him. And you did. Your hands, which had been bracing the sheets, clung to his shoulders, intending to keep him there.Â
The sensation of his touch finally, finally moving to cup you fully was an ecstatic relief. But it was the slow, deliberate fondling that undid youâthe broad pad of his middle finger sliding through your slick folds, dipping just inside your gummy warmth before retreating to circle your aching clit. Each pass was a masterclass in torment, coaxing a strained, needy moan from your throat that begged for a deeper intrusion.
âPleaseââ The plea was sliced short as Dutch stilled. His fingers froze, a breath away from your entrance, holding your very need hostage.
âIâll do anything you want, girl.â His voice was husky, graveled with a desire that mirrored your ownâeverything youâd ever wanted in a man. âAll you have to do,â He paused, and his hand began its slow, painstaking descent, the single finger pressing into your heat with exquisite control, mapping your inner texture, âis watch.â
ââââ
    The world had narrowed to this: the scent of him on the sheets, the slam of skin against skin. Your instincts had long since quieted, replaced by a thrilling current that left you breathless. Your knees sank into the softness of the mattress, and you felt the solid warmth of Dutch behind you, acting as an anchor in the midst of pleasure boiling your brain past the point of practicality.
With each deep, deliberate thrust, a gasp escaped your lips. When his palm, rough with the years of mastering the gun yet incredibly gentle, slid down the arch of your spine, a caress that made your brain go hazy for him. Your back curved into a beautiful, willing bow, and you buried your face in the sheets not to silence yourself, but to hold onto a moment that felt too profound to release into the air. The sound that escaped was a muffled whimper of his name, a testament to the pleasure that was both given and received, binding you together.
It was too much, yet not enough. Dutch slid into you easily, aided by your shared, slick heat. With little resistance, he pushed your body forward with every deep stroke, his hands on your hips pulling you back against him. Even the slight drag of his width was gone, replaced by a fluid, primal rhythm that felt as natural as breathing.
    A broken sigh escaped your lips, muffled against the sheets. This was what you had cravedâthis feeling of being utterly filled, completely claimed. One of his hands slid from your hip, his arm wrapping firmly around your waist to anchor you against his chest, his front to your back. The new angle was dizzying, making you gasp as he somehow sank even deeper. It made your head spin, even moreso once Dutch got ahold of your hair, tempting you to look in the mirror. You looked a messâface flushed and glistening with sweat, hair disheveled and stuck to your forehead. You could barely make out his figure through the haze of pleasure, his form a dark, solid blur above you, the only anchor in a spinning world.
But he saw you. His gaze was heavy, intense, taking in every detail of your unraveling. A low, gruff sound of approval rumbled in his chest.
"Look at you," he breathed, his voice thick with awe and desire. One hand came up to gently brush the damp hair from your forehead, his touch a startling contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hips. God, you can feel him in your guts at this point.
His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, smearing a tear you hadn't even realized had fallen.
"Look what you do to me." He confessed, raw and full of lust.
Seeing your complete surrender seemed to shatter the last of his control. His movements shifted, growing deeper, more purposeful, each stroke aimed at the very core of you. The pleasure was no longer a wave but a constant, rising tide, pulling you under. Your eyes fluttered shut, but his voice, rough and commanding, pulled you back.
"Look at me," he demanded softly. "I want to see you."
Your gaze found him in the mirror, and in that blurred, heated connection, you fell, eyes rolling back in your skull. What a sight you must be, exhausted, red in the face and sex-driven.Â
The world shattered into a million points of blinding light, your cry muffled against the sheets, the intensity pulling you under.Â
    His breath was hot against your neck, coming in ragged pants that matched your own. Despite your orgasm, Dutch didnât stop his abuse on your cunt. You could feel the pounding of his heart against your back, a wild drumbeat keeping time with the frantic pulse thrumming within you. He buried his face in the curve of your shoulder, hips further moving to bury deeper inside you; his voice a low, rough murmur that vibrated through your very bones.
"Feel that?" he growled, the words barely audible. "That's all me. You're taking all of me."
The possessive words, instead of feeling harsh, sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. Your fingers tangled with his where he held you, a silent plea escaping despite the overstimulation. The world had shrunk to this single, shimmering point of connectionâthe slick friction of your joining, the heat of his skin on yours, the building tension coiling tight and desperate low in your belly.Â
âPlease, DutchâŚâ You groan, locking gazes with him, itâs unknown to you what exactly youâre begging for since the man currently pounding away at your womb, has given you everythinghe possibly could give and yet, Dutch seems to know exactly what you want.
    With a final, harsh thrust, he bottomed out inside you, his hips pressed flush against you, a perfect seal. The world, which had been narrowing for so long, simply stopped.
Inside you, a deep, pulsing heat spread as his own release lasted, and the sound that was torn from him was more than a groanâit was your name, ragged and reverent, a prayer offered in the ruins of his control.
He collapsed over you, his full weight a grounding, solid comfort. His forehead fell against your sweat-slicked shoulder, his breath coming in hot, ragged gusts against your skin. For a long moment, there was only the sound of your shared, labored breathing and the frantic, slowing thunder of two hearts beating against each other.
He didn't pull away. Instead, his arms, now drained of their frantic strength, wrapped around you with a new, almost tender possessiveness. He held you there, pinned beneath him, still joined, as if unwilling to break the connection even for a second. In the quiet aftermath, the raw, animal intensity softened into something profoundâa silent acknowledgment.
