Have a Bite

For once there's nothing going through your head. It's quiet, blissful emptiness that sinks into your bones with a comforting blanket and cup of hot tea. The serenity is welcome when everything else is going to Hell in a handbasket and you'd love for it to stay forever.

If it weren't for the heart attack you were about to suffer at least.

You tear through the brush into the pools. Gasps tinged with salt fill your lungs as you look around frantically.

From what you learned the pools were never meant to be used recreationally. There's no decorative archway, decorative remains or civility of any kind lingering in the spaces between pools here that are, largely, no deeper than your hand and about as wide as a dinner plate. You were never sure how they stayed warm when they were scattered around like puddles after a rainstorm, only that the heat kept the place from freezing in worse weather.

So you don;t feel as bad when you go splashing through them in search of your highwayman. Not once do you worry about stomping the moss surrounding them and smashing them out of shape, or even care when water splashes against your ankles no doubt soaking the hems of your pants.

You don;t find Dismas around the smaller pools closest to the camp. You do, however, see the trail of flattened moss leading further in he must had made in his past trip that you immediately follow at a brisk jog. He wasn't the type to take different routes when one already worked.

The air becomes soggy the further away you are from the fire. Rocks wet with condensation drop the temperature to something cool and overly humid that sticks to your skin in the way a hot bath does. But you press on through the underbrush that's thankfully just a pathway of mosses and small bushes that you can jump over,

There was a main pool in every oasis hidden in the back. It didn't have a gate or even a wall since in it;s inception it was more of a holy site used for ritual bathing tucked away in a corner. Nowadays it'd been repurposed for anything at all-you found comfort in the fact the water was clean from the underground spring.

You almost slip on the wet mossy stones surrounding the pool-well pond is probably the better term as it is deeper than the rest. Your head is on a swivel yet you come up short when all you see is the lone tree growing through one of the angel statues at your left. There's only a few remaining, likely shattered from the apocalypse, but this one still retains it's face as if just existing is a fight it chooses to win even with the tree roots wrapped around it's body and neck.

You go from one side to the other while checking your shoes every few steps to keep from slipping. You check around the broken statues, the tree, everywhere you can think of. The protecting wall of the oasis prevents you from looking further and you know he won't leave the safety of this place, but you have no idea where he could have gone.

A splashing noise causes you to almost slip as you turn around before something bursts out of the water. Your heart lurches at the mop of dark hair coughing his guts out, “Dismas!?”

The highwayman was soaking wet as he leaned against the stone edge of the pond, wiping his face off until your shout startled him upright. Droplets fling off the ragged ends of his dress shirt as he whips around to face you as he coughs out, “(Y/N)?! The Hells-The Hell are ya doin' 'ere??“

“I was just-” You pause, unsure where to even start. You want to apologize and confess everything but also appease the little voice still lingering in your head telling you it's okay to love and this is your chance. You shove it down as hard as you can.

Instead you point to the water, “Why did you dunk yourself in the pond?”

His eyes flick to his hand still clutching to the pond's edge, “Ah..well..Was feelin' a bit hot is all.” His free hand swipes his hair out of his face but his eyes stay locked onto somewhere off to the side.

“So you chose to just,” He does look down at himself as you wave at him, “You could have just taken those off.”

You can see the embarrassment well up in him clear as day as his jaw clenches tight. He clears his throat while shaking out his sleeve, “Well, didn't occur. Jus' too hot fer it.” Still he refuses to look at you instead focused on trying to wring himself out. A fruitless endeavor since he was still in the water which he takes note of with a grimace when the edges of his vest just get soaked again the moment he lets go. Even so he remains, focusing on drying off his arms instead.

The silence is deafening. The world shrinks down into just the two of you. Him with the gentle splashes and trying to have something to do with his hands, and you with the weight of the past hour hung around your neck like a hangman's noose.

You reach up and touch his scarf again, worrying your lip with your teeth. The need to say something just to break the tension wells up but you don't know where to go or what to say. You need to do something, anything.

What the Hell do you even say?

The words just don't come. They well up and stick in your throat but you can't say it. It shouldn't be this hard. Your nose wrinkles at the effort.

Dismas moves. He reaches up for the branches above his head to pull himself out, water splashing everywhere. When he's on dry land he leans onto his knees, brows pinched together as his breathing picks up, red splotching up his neck.

Your cheeks warm as you take him in, a slick coil of arousal slipping in between the cracks of your composure at the sick thought of how hot he must be, how tight his clothes must feel. It's so damn unfair that he looks this good with his wet hair plastered to his forehead. His dress shirt is nearly a second skin and even worse for your poor heart is its white; the weight of it sticks to his muscles like plaster to a wall, accentuating everything.

You didn;t even know he was that built; you'd never seen him with his shirt off and now it was all you could think about.

You come out of your daze at the sound of his soft groaning; he'd moved from leaning on his knees to hunched over on the tree with a white knuckled grip where the cuff of his sleeve rode up exposing the bandages you had placed when it was just him getting injured and you tending to your soldier. One who trusted you enough to let you tend to him and see more of him than anyone else and worse, left your work alone without trying to adjust it with a complaint about how it itches.

Guilt was eating you alive. You caused this; had you not confessed to Para she wouldn;t have gotten the idea to poison her teammate in your name, if you'd just ignored her he wouldn't be stuck here burning from the inside from an overdose of aphrodisiac. Dismas would find it hilarious to know his death would be from being too horny to think; Hells he'd ask you to put it on his tombstone.

The reality of it didn't fully hit you until the terrible humor did first. How fitting in your line of work.

“I'm sorry....”

“Eh? Fer what?“ He blinks the haze out of his eyes to look at you.

You gesture to him, “For the...”

His eyes dart down then away, “Nah. It's, eh...it's not ya fault. Jus' a...jus' a bad reaction ta some medicine, not uncommon. Ain't the irony in that, eh?” He doesn't try to explain, rubbing the back of his neck.

“No. That's not....” You swallow, “That's not what...”

Fuck it.

You almost rip the scarf off, “Do you want this back?”

His head whips around eyes darting between you and the scarf in your hand, “....” You can feel the knife digging in as the light slowly dies behind his eyes but he didn;t look upset so much as he seemed to expect it. Still, the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, “Tired a takin' care of me stuff already?”

You shake your head, “No. Its just,” You take a deep breath, “I just don't deserve to carry it.”

He blinks, smirk dropping, “...What?” Another flick towards the scarf as if it were going to bite him, “Yer not makin' sense, 's jus' a scarf.”

It's not just a scarf. It reeks of whiskey and regrets you don't deserve to carry, of blood on his hands and poison on your own. The red practically seeps into your skin as a mark of your own part in all of this, “Just take it already before I drop it and it gets as soaked as you are.”

He eyeballs your boots as they step a hair closer to the edge of the pond, “Watch ya step. Dun' need a bath like me.”

You did. You needed to be cleansed of your mistake. For him to take it out of your hands and reclaim it for himself before he burns alive; why couldn't he let you have this mercy?

“I need a lot more to be clean again after tonight.”

“Bloody Hells, what'r ya talkin' 'bout? 'S not ya fault.”

“IT IS MY FAULT!”

You hadn;t meant to shout but the words slam their way out through your teeth and echo across the oasis, no doubt disturbing the others back at camp but you could care less.

“It's my fault you're like this! ME! I'm the one who let this happen and I need to take responsibility for my actions!”

Dismas actually steps back at your volume. All pretense of confusion is gone in his face except the blank stare boring into you. His arms are raised, not out of the readiness of a fighter; his palms are flat, facing you with a calmness you don't feel, “.....Alright. Got that outta ya system?”

You balk. In fact you're not even really sure what to say. Your hand drops to your side, scarf thwapping your shin stinging a bit but you ignore it, “How are you so calm about this?!”

He gestures towards the vague direction of the road, “Seen a lotta weird shit recently.”

Not like you could argue with that.

Still it lingers in your throat. You weren;t a drinker but right now you could go for a long swig of his flask-so long as you could stomach even asking him for it. Just the idea alone has your insides twisting into knots of desire and regret. Him being so nonchalant doesn't help at all as it just makes your own panic even worse.

Was it because he didnt' care? Did he just think it was a game? You nearly want to vomit at the idea of him thinking you were somehow messing with him worse than him simply not caring; the memory of him clawing back a bottle of whiskey because you'd taken it from his loose hand still haunts you in a way.

He wasn't okay. You weren't okay. Nobody was okay-and now he was poisoned because of a silly little fantasy. The supposedly harmless little crush had teeth apparently.

He moves with a careful slowness, near predatory in how his gaze remains on you the entire time, easing his hands down to his sides. Each heavy step squelches the moss under his boots, the click of leather soles loud in the silence between you as he prowls around the pool the opposite side, giving you time to answer and him a clear view of every move you'd make, “Ya think ya cun clear up the air a bit now? What's this 'bout it bein' ya fault?“

You swallow. Opportunity knocking at your door wasn't new and neither was answering it. You could let it out and be free of the guilt-but you don't. Not because you couldn't, but that you were basically rendered useless by his movement alone. There was a confidence in his stride, every motion purposeful and carrying the weight of a man on a mission. Desire curls in your gut at the light in his eye as it trains on you, the target he chooses to focus on with everything he had even when he was half delirious with lust.

Before you can try to respond he stops, half turned away from you. The heat is back in his gaze as he glares at you as if he's taking in every inch he can, savoring the image like a glass of liquor. He's still soaking wet from the waist down, drops splashing from the hems of his pants and boots; a tight curl twists in your belly at the hard shape pressing his fly outwards.

You're shivering and for once not out of fear, but out of the raw force of a woman realizing a man has her in his sights. The wind blows carrying the faint scent of gunpowder and the remaining cleanliness of wet cloth. You try to swallow down the saliva gathering in your mouth to answer, “Uh....I-I....” The back of your brain is screaming at you to say literally anything to your claim but you're just standing there like an idiot.

He doesn't approach but his stare hardens further; there's no anger so far but you can tell he's losing patience. If not from you then for the situation. He huffs through his nose, running a hand through his hair, “Right. Goin' ta be tongue tied now are we? Thought we was supposed ta be a team, an no gang runs tha show without spillin' a bit o' secrets from time ta time.” He gives you a piercing look but the heat there isn't the same; he stares at you like a cornered thief ready to raise Hell, “Thought ya were different.”

Now your insides knot up again with the same guilt and lust cocktail they seem to love so much. You hate the way he looks at you as if you're some obstacle in the way he needs to remove to survive; the need to be better than yourself overwhelms the embarrassment of keeping your little secret, “It was Para's idea..she wanted to..help me.”

His eyebrow raises, “Help wit' what? Makin' a fool outta me?”

“No. No, nothing like that.” The scarf tangles in your wandering fingers to give yourself something to focus on. In the isolation of the old ritual pool, underneath the watch of a dead angel, you surrender, “To....help me with....you..”

The quiet doesn't snap back in. It rolls, settles, and reassumes control of the area like an old dog ready for bed. Your shoulders slump, the air leaving your lungs with your will to keep everything in; you're tired, the road's been long wearing you down and this hasn't been doing you or anyone any favors.

Well, you supply, he knows now. What he does with it is his choice.

After enough time has passed you're sure you've aged several years the moss squelches far too close for comfort. Your head snaps up, eyes wide.

Dismas was in front of you. His expression betrayed nothing, walls slammed up as high as you've ever seen them. Eyes so green flit across your face looking for something so intently it burns a trail over your skin, “...What's this 'bout needin' help wit' me? Yer finally done dealin' with me and ready ta leave my sorry arse behind, is it?”

You blink, “What?”

“I get it. Highwaymen aren't trustworthy are they, eh? Too much of a hassle ta deal wit' when ya gotta watch yer own hide makin' sure they don't run off wit' all ya gold.” A muscle ticks in his jaw, clenched tight with effort to keep his voice in check.

“Th-That's not-That's not it at all!” You flounder.

“Oh but I think it is, love.” The pet name gets ruined by him aggressively stepping into your space, “Ya got some nerve ta' pull this one on me. I cun take a bit o' roughhousin', ya don't need ta sugar coat it fer me when ya wanna tell me ta get lost. I'll do it, Hell's I'd've left if'n ya'd just told me earlier before we got somethin' good ta eat. Bet ya wanted ta twist the knife in me back ta make a point too. Make sure I felt the sting of it.”

That actually offends you. You'd never once tried to take anything off his plate after a stint where he'd nearly gutted the only knight you could find over a loaf of bread. Yes you learned afterwards the two were friendly to each other so he took no offense-whatever they'd been through together had been enough to overpower his food aggression-but it still shook you to your core that he'd immediately launched into such a reaction, “Don;t you dare accuse me of that. Don't even try.” His scarred lip curls back flashing teeth like an angry dog when you jam your finger into his face, “I wouldn't do something to you like that.”

“Wouldn't ya now?” He barks a laugh so cruel it hurts, “Ya got some spine back in ye. Last I saw ya couldn't look in me eyes without blustering like a fresh whore in a tavern full'a drunkards.”

Insulted doesnt begin to cover how his words wound you. You've been on this journey for so long you'd forgotton how he wields words with the same efficiency of a blade, gutting you to your core with his tongue alone. He knows it hurts too with the sneer he points down at you; still, you cannot deny the bittersweet knot forming in your belly at how mean he's being and not treating you like you're a delicate flower. He says what he wants to, how he sees the world without remorse or regret and frankly it turns you on in ways you're not really prepared for, “Shut up...”

“Why? Can't 'andle someone callin' ya out on yer shit? Maybe ya can;t stand bein' caught and jus' wanna play mind games like wit' those freaks you pit us against wit'out any care if we even live-!”

You can't take it anymore. It's one thing to insult you, to call you names and blame you for your mistakes-but to claim you don't care about any of the people you;ve convinced to work for you, that their lives mean nothing to you-

It;s too much.

The punch hits. He must have not been expecting it as he takes it square across the jaw with a grunt. He recoils, giving you space while covering his face.

You're panting, the pain in your hand completely ignore as you finally snap, “How fucking dare you think that none of them matter to me! You think I do this for fun!? That I enjoy it?!” You don;t give him the time to register your words before you're grabbing him by the collar and yanking him back up. He stares at you surprised, clearly not expecting you to fight back so hard, “There's not a single night I don't think about their faces and how much they believed in me. How they heeded my every order waiting for the day where it'd all be worth it and it'd be over. Do you know how many times I've had nightmares about their screams!? The way they died at my reckless commands because I let them get torn apart?!”

Dismas, mercifully doesn't say anything. His green eyes are wide and trained onto your face with a vengeance; he isn't sneering at you anymore and instead looks contemplative, studying you closely. Whether it's because he believes you or is searching for a different approach isnt clear but whatever he finds keeps him quiet.

You;re no better in several conflicting ways. Your mind is in tatters, stressed to the limit of what you can take; you'd never expected him of all people to blame you for what needed to be done. He'd always been the one to tell you to let your mistakes be in the past, likely pushed on by his own grief from his errors that he didnt want you to fall into the same pits; still here you were in the deepest hole you could find wrestling with the searing guilt of both past and present mistakes.

No matter what you did it was always you're fault wasn't it?

“Don;t you ever tell me they didn't matter. If I hear you say even one fucking word on it, I'll let Tardif come collect the bounty on your head. Do you hear me?” When he stays quiet you yank him in close, his nose brushing yours, “I said, do. You. Hear me?”

He stubbornly remains quiet for a moment longer but you can see the conflict in his eyes as they flit about your face, trying to judge something of you; eventually he nods slowly, swallowing hard, “Yeah. Got it.”

Yet you remain in that position. Part of you claims it's for intimidation, to keep him in line in case he tries again but that's not true and you know it. The proximity is starting to wriggle in underneath the wall of guilt as you're suddenly very aware of how this looks, how he looks even more so. You've got him pressed up against you in a death grip, rumpling his collar in your fists. His vest is warm, the cloth old but strong as it rasps against your chest; you realize now just how close you've hauled him as you stand face to face, the highwayman forced to lean down to reach your height. You're sharing the air between you in heaving breaths that crush your breasts against his chest, nipples hardened into little bullets that scrape in little zings of pleasure as they rub against your bra. Your breasts feel heavier in the presence of a man, even more so when you've got him leashed like a dog.

He's not doing any better, heaving into your face with the expression of frustration at being cornered. His scarred lip wants to raise into a snarl, yet he keeps it held down with clenched teeth; the anger is mostly gone, an intense amount of focus in it's place as he continues to stare at you. His hands are clenched at his sides, opening and closing in turns as if looking for something to grab; whether it's his pistol he left at his tent or you, you can't tell.

What you can tell is the rock hard bulge brushing against your clothed pussy when he adjusts into a more comfortable position while standing above you. And he noticed it too as he goes still the second your eyebrows go up even the slightest.

You're so close to each other. You can see the etches of time in the lines on his forehead and beside his eyes, the layers of silver weaved in his undercut as well as the salty tinge from the pond lingering on his skin. The wetness from his clothes begins to soak into your blouse, but you barely notice since the cool effect only amplifies the heat under your skin. Your grip on him loosens and your hands instinctively smooth onto his shoulders.

The motion makes his eyes go wide and suddenly he's stepping back out of your reach. His breathing deepens as he stares at you with a sharp exhale and a hand raised to keep you away, “Don't do that...”

You blink. Then again, slower. You're not sure if his voice is rough from his desire or something else, but it was doing things to you. Bad things, especially now that the moment was over. You lick your suddenly dry lips, trying to sound casual like you weren't just feeling him up, “Don't what?”

Dismas watches the movement with a predatory gaze before sharply looking away, “Dun' give me hope like that..'specially after that kinda flirtin'.” He rubs his jaw with the back of a hand, even checking it to see if you'd made him bleed. You didn't, sadly you don't have that much power, but now there's an image where you did punch him hard enough that blood pooled onto his lip helpfully popping up in the back of your mind.

Hold on a minute, “Flirting? What-do..”

You gesture between the two of you, “You count women trying to beat you up as flirting?”

It takes a second for him to answer since he was too busy adjusting his jaw, “Cun be. Not exactly 'fraid of a woman that can kick my ass. Do better in bed too since they'll let me know when I bite 'em too much.”

Your skin erupts in goosebumps as he opens his mouth nonchalantly, giving you a fine view of his surprisingly sharp looking canines, something glinting in the far back of his jaw as he moves it around to test for damage. He closes it without fanfare, seemingly more worried about his injury than you currently standing slack jawed at such a bold display-at least you'd believed he didn;t notice until he looked at you again with a knowing side eye and smirk stretching his scarred lip, “Got sumethin' on my face~?”

You need to respond but for a moment you're stunned silent. Too many emotions and hormones flood your brain with conflicting interests as well as the fact your pussy was at a boiling point, juices overflowing your panties with wet sticky heat. You desperately try to get a hold of yourself-you know what he's doing, or at least attempting to do.

Deflecting your attention away from the point: why he'd reacted like that in the first place.

“A bold faced pack of lies is what I see.” His smirk instantly drops, mild annoyance in it;s place as you press, “Don't distract me, Dismas, I know your games. You're not getting out of this.” You step forward into his space this time, prodding a finger into his chest, “What did you mean by giving you hope?”

He glares at you for a bit longer before sighing long and deep, “Ya ain't an idiot and neither am I. I know what the quack doc's got in me system an if I'll be honest wit' ye, it's a nasty little bit a5' work.”

You grimace. He wasn't wrong in the fact that it's Para's doing and what it is, but he still sounds like he doesn't want to blame you for it. While you're touched, you don't want him to just pin all the blame onto the doctor for just trying to help you, “Listen, she only did it because of me. She wanted to help and I just....” You trail off. He side eyes you expectantly, waving a hand for you to continue, “.....It's just a dumb thing. I didn't mean for it to cause you so much trouble.”

His forehead wrinkles, “Doesn't look like jus' a 'dumb' thing.” The little hand movement he makes to emphasis is almost cute if it weren't for the sarcasm in his voice, “The way this's goin' sideways I'd wager ya didn't mean ta let her even know 'bout ya problem.”

“No I didn;t. But she forced it out of me and made it her personal mission to convince me to let it happen.“ Your sigh is full of regret, “And I let her do it too, so it's not all her fault.”

“Yeah, sounds like a right heap of trouble.“ The fact he doesn't try to argue for either side doesnt make you feel any better or worse. At the least he's not picking sides or trying to get revenge on Para for something ultimately your fault.

But then he raises a hand, pointing at you, “Now yer playin; my own games against me.”

You blink, “Huh?”

“Ye told me not ta distract ye and what're ya doin' right now? Talkin' bout who's fault it is on,” He waves to his everything; you try not to let your gaze drop below his belt but you can still see the heavy bulge pressing against his trousers and it sends a shiver down your spine, “This mess?”

A spark of panic wells up in your throat. It's true you'd hoped he wouldn't notice the redirection but Dismas wasn't an idiot; you should have known he'd figure it out eventually. Still you try if only to preserve the little dignity you have left here because you think you'll die if he figures out the real reason, “I-I did let her do it without trying th-that hard to stop it. I don't see what else you're talking about-”

He waves your excuse away like it were a fly in his ear, “No, ye don't get ta be cute wit' me. Ya may be in charge but I ain't stupid. The doc doin' things to her own tune is right, but she doesn't do 'em for laughs; too much up 'er own skirt for that.”

You flinch back a step as he leans in, poking you in the chest this time, “Somethin' else's goin' on. Somethin' wit' you. And it's got ta do wit' me.” He gestures to himself with his thumb and the smile on his face isn't as cruel as before, almost amused.

The air turns heavy again. He stares at you, the same burning heat in his eyes as they flit about your face, visibly struggling to keep above your neckline and yet still trailing down lower. His gaze stops at your neck for a brief moment before darting back, smirk slowly falling as it lingers on your lips.

Your lips part silently as you breathe harder, gasping air down your throat like a lifeling to cool the heat burning in your ribs but it just feeds the flames. Your trousers are plastered to your pussy like a second skin that writhes with every movement you make, nudging your delicate petals like flipping through the pages of a book and the instant you lean back to get a bit of space between you the seam gently caresses your outer lips aside just enough to press against your swollen pearl. You try to muffle the sudden sharp gasp but it hisses through your teeth anyways.

His eyes find yours again instantly, desire smoldering in deep pools of green.

Then he's pulling away again, “Eh....Like I said, if'n ya don't need me help anymore ya could'a jus' told me.” He coughs, studying the entombed angel statue as if it could give him an answer.

And the anger floods right back in where it left pushing out the lust boiling in your blood for now. You're pretty sure that your poor pussy is tired of the whiplash from being flooded by hormones to suddenly devoid of it; frankly so are you. But his comment does bring something to the forefront, “Dismas. I'm not done with you nor am I dismissing you. That wasn't the point.” He doesn't look like he believes you, “I mean it.”

The small grimace on his face tells you he's still not convinced, “Sure. Not like ya'd always need a gunman, right?”

“Dismas that isn't the point-I just-” You huff, “I literally just told you that's not why this happened.”

“And I've been sayin' I don't see what else it could be. Ya give the doc the idea ta drug me an' ya say it ain't for anythin' bad, but I've been part of a gang before; I know the signs tellin' me ta get out while I still have my teeth in me head.”

You throw your hands up, “That's not it at all! I-”

Red fabric flutters across your vision. Startling you right out of your rant.

You're still holding the scarf. How it survived you not just punching him but also your throttling and throwing your hands around wildly you'd never know but it's still there wrapped around your palm like a brand with his name on it. A silent, irrefutable mark of him that he goes stock still at the sight of.

The realization doesn't so much as click as it does settle in the same space as the silence did, heavy and waiting to be addressed properly this time instead of freaking out at every possible moment.

Why are you even doing this? Why drag this out? Why are you running?

Yes, it was Para;s idea to abuse her knowledge and drug Dismas with an aphrodisiac, yes she and Baldwin had a bet to win, but she never would have done that if she didn't at least care about you. Neither of them would have done anything at all to help you if they didn't. And why wouldn't they? The world is burning, monsters linger in every corner and someday it could all mean nothing; at the very least, you could find comfort in the time you had.

Because maybe even someone like you didn't deserve to be alone.

So you sigh, long and full of a bone deep exhaustion. Your hands drop, craddling his scarf as you rub the worn fabric between your fingers, “.......I like you Dismas. More than I have anyone, really. All Para was trying to do was help me confess.”

There. You'd said it. Weeks of silence and personal torment laid bare like a promise of safety. Of....anything at all. To be frank you're not sure what to even do with yourself now that you've confessed, nervously twiddling the scarf around your fingers as if it'd give you something to work with.

Dismas is quiet. Too quiet-which is a feat for a man normally making conversation about anything that caught his fancy. You can still see his boots standing in front of you but aside from that he's completely closed off, causing you to look up through your eyelashes at him.

He's frozen. Completely paralyzed to the spot, jaw snapped shut, eyes wide; it's a look you've never seen on his face. His chest heaves with barely controlled breath that shudders with every inhale, “Ya...ya dun mean that....” He roughly swipes a hand through his hair chewing the skin off his lip, “Nah...s'not real...”

Now it's you who locks up. Dismas continues to back away from you frantically looking around for an escape, “..What? Dismas-”

“No no, dun' try ta distract me...I know what's wrong now.” He grabs his neck, “Too much poison...losin' my head ta stress. Heheh, makes sense now..”

“But-I-” You stammer, trying to get closer, “But I am real. I just touched you, for Light's sake! Dismas this isn't a hallucination!” When you get too close he staggers back with a muffled groan, swinging at you but it lacked any strength, missing by a mile.

You're not upset, just concerned. Stress had always been a factor you'd needed to account for; some handled it well, others did not. The highwayman himself was a mixed bag depending on how prepared he'd allow himself to be; usually meaning he'd drink himself into a light drunken stupor that would wear off as time went on. Sometimes his breakdowns would line up with a hangover and he'd be completely out of combat until he could control himself. There'd been a time where you'd fought with him over it but you'd given up after a few weeks-it wasn't worth the effort. Luckily he could handle himself fairly well.

But here he wouldn't have been allowed to drink after being poisoned. Para would have had a righteous fit if he even tried to grab his flask-worse yet, you're sure it's still in his coat back in his tent.

So he was currently dead sober and looking mere seconds away from having a panic attack.

You try again to at least put a hand on his shoulder but he flinches away, “Stop, stop it-” A bone deep groan tears through his throat. His hands tried to stay up to ward you away but drop to his knees as he spreads his legs with hot gasps rasping in his chest, “Dammit...not again..”

Yet again a traitorous slick heat drives down to your pussy from your gut, quite tired of being ignored as it's much more intense from the scene being dragged out so long. His shoulders bulge under the sleeves of his dress shirt and it's a cruel reminder that despite standing around talking for so long he's still wet from diving into the water. Droplets drag down his tense jaw highlighting the muscle drawn tight before sliding down his throat; they stick around the coarse stubble he'd yet to shave off like little glittering pearls before fading into his equally wet collar. The vest appears to be struggling against his heaving gasps as the cloth visibly stretches with each one, tightening around the barrel of his chest. And his arms. Light-his arms alone almost seem to burst out of his sleeves from how tightly he clenches his knees, muscle just barely visible as it bulges out through the damp fabric.

But while his top half has had more time to dry his pants haven't. The canvas doesn't allow you to see much, but you can clearly see the heavy bulge trying to break through, straining the fabric to the limit, throbbing and desperate for release.

You're going to lose your mind. You know he's right there, that the drug won't leave easily without release-yet you still hesitate. Because it's not just helping him anymore.

It's personal. You'd bared your heart to him and he'd completely shut down-hopefully not from rejection, but definitely from paranoia. He thinks that you being here and the whole conversation was just a hallucination; you need to convince him otherwise before he goes under completely.

You take that fear that's been holding you back all this time, the trembling version of you terrified of rejection and abandonment. She's in your way but you don't cast her aside-you acknowlege the reality, the fear of the unknown and where it could take you. That it could all be for nothing.

You carefully package her up and set her aside with the young, bright eyed child you used to be before the world ended; safe in the past where neither were really needed anymore, but thankful they existed at all.

And you step forward grabbing him by the shoulder to force him to look at you, “Look at me, Dismas! Do I look like a dream to you?” He lurches in your grasp but you grab his face in your hand, silently reveling the feeling of his coarse stubble against your palm, “I promise I'm real! None of that was fake, I promise you-”

His eyes clench shut as he pushes you off, “Get..Get off me! Bloody fuckin' cultist crap-that's wha' this is idn't it? Tryin' ta make me break by showin' me what I want?” He tries to snarl it at you, but the instant you show any hurt his gaze whips away as he curses the words to the woods surrounding you, “Well ya ain't breakin' me tha' easily. Ya think I can't 'andle a bit 'a vice in me blood and cock hard enough ta kill a man with?” You shiver at the soft but cruel laugh that leaves him, not because of fear but from how charged it makes your nerves, “Neva seen me afta' watchin' 'er take one a ya's life with a bullet ta' the skull. Was near burstin' jus' from the look in 'er eyes.”

Your thighs are quivering at this point from the throbbing centering in your clit. Sticky wet heat oozes from your delicate petals from every word he speaks, the content earning just as visceral a reaction as the low, dangerous growl of his voice as if he were straining each syllable across the edge of a knife and full of dangerous promise. You bite your lip in a desperate attempt to keep your voice steady, “D-Dismas....” But you can't force out anything more out.

Your shaking worsens as he hums low in his throat. The very tip of his tongue laves along one of the scars on his lip, the sight so terribly arousing you nearly stumble, “Yeah, she'd sound like that wouldn't she~? Such a soft little thing, probably shake ta bits if I got these 'ands on her.” His smug grin drops, “But ya bastards dun' deserve ta' hear 'er or use her ta get ta me. Ya want me? Want me ta break then come get me like a man!”

This was getting out of hand. Dismas stormed around you, treating your space like a toxic zone, but his every other step staggered as he couldn't put weight where it mattered. He was too sensitive, too angry to think straight about anything going on outside of you being insulted, him being tormented by the idea of you, and it drove you to an insane, heat slick choice.

You got just close enough to grab him by the soggy lapels of his coat and kissed him.

Warmth bloomed where your lips met, the wetness seeping into your blouse a distant thought as you hold him firmly in place against your chest. His mouth clamps shut the moment you're upon him, a faint taste of the mineral tainted waters he'd been soaked with mixing with the distinct flavor of whiskey and something distinctly him; he doesn;t respond to your prodding but you don't relent, pushing into his still lips with an urgency you pray breaks through his illusion.

It doesn't take long for him to answer after your tongue swipes upwards along a scar, tracing the faintly raised flesh reverently like a sacred mark on a saint. Only then does he collapse inwards in your grip with a chest deep groan that boils into a growl as his lips finally part to meet you with savage desire. He doesn't kiss you—he devours you body and soul from your lips alone, tongue crushing yours back into your mouth in its rampage, tasting all you have to offer him. The shattered moan he makes in your mouth has you whimpering as huge palms clasp your head between them in reverent, desperate worship, holding you against him so tightly you lose track of where you end and where he begins. Low animal grunts punctuate every curl of his tongue around yours, each hum a prayer against your lips. Saliva builds between you and leaks down to your chin alongside wayward beads of pond water, but you can't begin to care when he holds you like you're the last thing he could want in the world.

Only when your lungs start screaming do you try to push him away. He struggles against it, growling low in his throat at being denied your flavor with his hands clasping tighter around your temples. But you don't have enough air to let him continue ravaging you—and you do, so desperately want to—so you brace, pulling your tongue back just before you clamp your teeth onto his still in your mouth.

The groan you rip out of him is raw and confused like a horse suddenly kicked in the flank without warning. You open your eyes when he tries to pull back and find him staring at you, chest heaving and mouth open with his tongue firmly clamped between your teeth. His eyes flit about your face, no longer drowning in anxious yet righteous rage.

You finally let him go, breathing hard yourself from the onslaught. For a moment you just let yourself breathe in his whiskey tainted breath while he continues to stare at you as he rolls his tongue in his mouth, "….Wha' was tha' for?” His voice is a rough whisper over your lips.

You swallow. Hard, “You were panicking and I don't need you having a breakdown in the middle of the oasis. It'll draw attention to us.” He nods but is clearly distracted, looking away as the words settle between you. The raw need bleeds out of him slowly and you watch the embarrassment start to sink in as he chews his lip, hooking a canine over the scar. His grip on your head loosens as if he'd only just realized he was doing it now that his head was clear again.

No, You can't let this moment slip away.

He jumps, head whipping back to face you when your hands slap onto his keeping them around your temples. You tilt your head up at him, closing the distance between you again while he watches you warily, “I wasn't lying earlier. I meant every word.” He swallows, “I'm serious. There's no tricks or lies here, Dismas. Just.” You lick your lips, tasting him, “....Just me.”

The way he stares at you is one of a man who's trying in vain to keep himself together, soul trembling with the desire he so desperately wants to unleash. His hands clench about your head holding you like you're his anchor in a storm at sea, unable to keep his gaze focused as it flickers around your face. The few times it trails down further to trace your jawline has your heart racing.

You're not much better. Front just as wet as he is from chest to stomach from holding him against you for so long while your hands start to shake around his. Slick heat trickles down your lower belly into your weeping pussy soaking the panties to the point they've surely merged together after hours of edging through words and actions of both you and him. YOu hold his gaze not because he needs you to, but because you fear that looking away might break this moment and ruin the chance you have.

A moment passes. A minute. Two. The only reason you count is if you stop you'll lose nerve. The constant tick of a silent clock keeps you focused, aware of how little time it would take for the others to come looking for you.

There's a loud click in his throat when he finally answers, “See...I want ta'..I want ta believe ya. I sorely do, love.” The name seems to fall off his lips without thought, like a trickle of water over the edge of an overfilled dam. He knows it isn't something he should say, yet he allowed it to leave anyways as his gaze darts to your lips, “....But I dun' think ya know what yer in for....”

“.....What do you mean.” The fingers around your head twitch as you give him a confused look, “Dismas. I know you better than most of the people here. I know what you did that-”

He cuts you off with a shake of his head, “No. No it..it's not that..”

His hands start to tremble. Long fingers, wrapping around the back of your skull to almost meet in the middle, start to fidget under your touch. He adjusts his grip lower to cup along your cheeks, motions stuttering with nervous energy as his breath deepens.

“..'M not a good man. Men like me, we don't jus' love little thing's like you.” He starts, voice low as rolling thunder, “We take 'em, piece by piece until there's little else. Break 'em wit' our wrongs 'cause we can't carry 'em ourselves an'....”

His hands clench on your cheeks, squishing them under his callous palms. His gaze wanders to them briefly entranced by the softness of you. Your tense shoulders soften at his thumb curling up beside your cheekbone and rubbing a slow soothing arc. He too seems lost in a daze, chest dragging in long, heavy breaths far too calm for one in his position.

Like a ringing bell for the hour his jaw clenches for a fraction of a second, displaying his bared teeth between scarred lips as suddenly he spits it all out in a frantic nail biting rush that has your toes curling in your boots.

“But I fear if I put me 'ands on ye right now, I'll carve out somethin' ya can't get back.”

You hear him loud and clear through the rush of want in your veins—its a gamble of two. On your end there's the risks involved with fraternizing you've already calculated for as well as the gossip that'll surely spread the second anyone gets wind of it. That you're sure of and find a strange comfort in it; it's predictable, exploitable.

Then there's him. Not just an asset-a man on the edge of restraint and about to buckle from all you've offered him. Yet as you partion through his words, trying your best to ignore the thudding rhythm between your legs a bit longer you remember Para's earlier comment.

“I’m certain he thinks himself too low for you and that maybe you’d go for someone of higher birth or something as ridiculous as that.”

And there's the source of it. His anxiety and where the desperate, rigorous control over his own urges comes from. Because he believes he isn't good enough. His hands too covered in red, guilt too heavy of a burden that he now fears you'll be dragged into the dark with him.

Your heart swells in your chest. And for the second time tonight and probably many after, you give into impulse.

With your hands still clinging to the back of his you carefully pry one off. He watches you with ravenous green irises dancing between you and the hand you drag down your chest and stomach. You step forward, angling your legs open and pressing his bare, vulnerable fingers to your burning core.

The effect was instant as once he brushed the sodden canvas of your trousers he stiffened, eyes sharpening with a deadly awareness of what you were showing him and why. His jaw clenched hard, muscles ticking under the skin as his chest vibrated with a harsh, desperate growl, “Oh.....ye dun' know what yer playin' with, love...” The words are hissed through clenched teeth, his head tilting just a hair more in your direction.

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't.” You breathe, drawing another sharp growl like grunt from his throat, “If you think I'm scared of you then I maybe you need a reminder of what we've been going through for months now. What I've seen is a lot,“ You lean in so he sees the conviction in your eyes as you whisper right against his mouth, “Worse than you.”

He just stares at you, mouth pressed into a firm line. The air tightens between you, knotted in threads of barely suppressed lust. Your will against his stubbornness with no way of knowing who was going to crack first.

In the same moment he realized you weren't backing down, he laughed low and dangerous in his throat, “Yer goin' ta be the end of me, love...But...If'n yer thinkin' ya can jus' put meat out on a hook and expect the strays ta leave it be.” He swipes his hair back, still damp as it flops off kilter to his temple.

Sanji is a hard around the edges soft on the inside character who is stubborn and hell bent on his dream of the All Blue. It's how he's presented in the Baratie arc right off the bat by beating the shit out of a Marine bc he didn't like his attitude abt his cooking, a hardass with no respect for authority. Then Nami appears and suddenly he's all roses and heart eyes over the pretty girl in his restaurant which contradicts his entire introduction. Mostly this is played for laughs and it works out.

Then we learn about his struggles, how he starved for so long and only survived bc of Zeff choosing to be a hardass right back to him while being stranded on that rock in the middle of the ocean, losing his leg and nearly starving to death bc he let him have all the food. How it changed his perspective on both food in general and Zeff as a person. He wasn't going to listen to anyone bc no one could match his hardheaded nature-he needed someone like Zeff to get through his pride and teach him how to live, which persists all the way until he finally leaves with Luffy to pursue his own dream after spending so long helping Zeff with his.

How does any of this tie into him being a pervert, you may ask? I'm not too sure myself but I do think I know something.

Sanji is trying to fill an absence in his life with his love of women. All his hard edges and hardheaded pride, yet he caves to any woman telling him to stop instantly softening for them. Almost like if he's good enough, they'll return that gentleness to him and fill the hole in his chest that's been empty for so long he forgot what it was waiting for. A desperate, hopeless need that's overshadowed by a voracious love of the opposite sex presenting itself in the form of a perverts dream.

That's why I find his encounter with Absolom so interesting (to clarify I started with Thriller Bark and now we're watching the rest of the series in order). Absolom is by all accounts a far worse version of Sanji, twisting the concept even though he mimics the behavior. He wants a wife, runs across Nami in the bath and decides he'll have her, taking her by force to do what he wants. It's basically luck he didn't do anything before he 'married' her while she was asleep. Because unlike Sanji he has no real love of women outside of what he wants, a good looking wife to be his.

Sanji would never do that. Sanji would gut himself before doing that. It's why he gets so unfathomably angry that Nami is trapped with him beyond being one of his friends; Absolom's entire being goes against what he believes in regarding women.

Yes, even the rant abt using the devil fruit to watch girls in the bathroom.

I won't ignore that he's sometimes a bit of an overly perverted idiot—but I do accept that it's just in his nature. He is, by all accounts, the safest pervert to be around. Maybe he has less than clean thoughts but, you can't look me in the eye and say that he would do any real harm. That at any point he would lay hands on a woman without consent or go overboard with his perversion at all. He;s fully capable of setting his wants aside and being reasonable when the need calls for it. In fact, I'd say him being a blatant pervert makes him even more trustworthy.

Who better to know how a pervert thinks than to have one with you?

Overall, I believe Sanji being a pervert is largely tied to him desperately craving a more gentle kind of love he may never have gotten. As far as I know he's only experienced the tough love of a father figure who almost died for him, driving him to become a fiercely giving and loyal person. Yes, a good portion of it may just be because he's horny, but I do think at least some is bc of some deeply repressed part of him he's trying to ignore or at least deal with quietly. Maybe this is mostly me rambling but I did want to get this out at the least as I don't really see many writer's address his perverted nature in a good light—mostly I've seen them ignore it which ties into my point above.

There's a lot of ways to describe how you feel right now. Confused is the most obvious, yet also the most comforting in a way. Being so sure of your confusion was familiar compared to the rest of the tangled knot in your head, so you let yourself bask in it for a moment before moving on.

The others are wilder, much less easy to pick apart. Shock might be one, though it could also be disgust? No, not disgust. That was for ugly things you didn't want any part of.

Did the last few minutes count as ugly? Were you brave enough to count them as anything else? Curious, maybe?

Words come to mind but you're unsure of the consequences of voicing those yet even to yourself. Not because of being shy of them-in your own way, you've gone much farther in those few minutes than you've ever been before.

You're scared that if you admit it, it'll drive you even more insane than the moment itself.

The tremor in your legs hadn't left even when she'd put her hand on you. In fact it seemed to worsen just from the feeling of someone touching you at all.

Immediate thoughts of stronger, larger hands gripping you so tightly plague your mind, gnawing into the deepest crevices to pull up the few memories when they did touch you. How they near cradled you in times of calm and held fast when the danger was high. So few are they that the images die out fast, but the flame burns deep within your belly alongside your thundering heartbeat pounding in your veins.

Although Para clearly thought otherwise as she brings that train of thought to a screeching halt when she shakes you hard enough to rattle your teeth, “Hey! Focus on me and not the hormones coursing through your limbic system!”

“Alright alright!” You swat her away while running your tongue over your abused molars, “What the Hell do you want Para? And what's a limbic system?"

"The part of the brain that controls emotions like the ones you're letting run rampant in your skull. Judging from that flush on your cheekbones, they're ones of the lustful kind." She leans in to study you like some kind of bug.

You lean out of reach of that beak with a grimace, "Are not.“

“Are too but that doesn't matter.” The bottle is shoved in your face again, “Drink.”

An acrid stench assaults your nose the second it's within your reach and you recoil, “No, why? What did you even put in that thing?”

“Doesn't matter, drink it.”

“I think it very much does!” You're already close to gagging just from the smell, you don't want to know what might happen if you drink it, “You could poison me with it for all I know!”

“Nothing in it is toxic. I checked my record on top of taking a sample earlier today to be certain. I'm a trained professional and I know what I'm doing now drink the tonic.” Again it's shoved into your airspace nearly jammed into your eye from how you're desperately trying to lean away from it.

“At the least tell me what the Hell it's even supposed to do before I choke to death!” Now you put a hand up to stop her from shoving it at you again, gripping the bottle around bottom so she can;t just leverage your hand off.

Her own grasp on it tightens as she tilts the bottle's cork at you, “Prevention. We don't have any on board and I know we can't deal with consequences so this will make sure you don't take.”

“Take what?”

“You'll figure it out now drink it, doctor's orders.”

“Who made you my doctor?”

“Me. I assigned myself your doctor the day you decided you wanted to bed that old bastard.”

Now you're both confused and a bit insulted on his behalf, “Why are you so hostile about him?”

“Because I know his type and they can carry any sort of diseases from bedding tavern whores. Before you ask he's clean, I've been making sure he doesn't get sick from it so it doesn't transfer to you now are you going to keep arguing with me or are you going to let me help you stay safe tonight?” She leans in with every sentence until her beak is nearly parallel to your face, goggles glaring right at you.

You'd put up much more of a fight but given how many times you'd been locked in an argument about whatever elixir's she concocts the results usually make it worth the attempt. Usually.

The real question is was it worth not questioning the contents. Curiosity was definitely not enough on it's own and while you did trust her, she had a habit of putting odd things together that would make anyone want to scrub their tongue with nails.

“Fine. Just tell me what I'm drinking before it goes down my throat at least.” You practically snatch the bottle out of her hand. It's sloshes slowly along the sides and you can clearly see the bits of ground up plants she'd thrown in.

You're just glad its still green when you swish it about.

“Nothing that you couldn't see around here, I swear it now chug it before it goes to waste.” She makes a point to jab it hard enough to almost knock it out of your hand, “That's not going to keep and by my count you've got at least another ten minutes before the bugroot in there goes bad. Most of what I used was dried and stored away for personal use and most of it was already used so I had to improvise now don't dally.”

You pull the bottle away before her poking makes you drop it. With a final side eye, along with an unfortunate amount of trust, you sigh and uncork the bottle. Trying your best to ignore the green fumes and slight fizzing inside you tilt the neck of the bottle to your lips.

Instantly the most vile bitter twang is knocking on the back of your throat. Your tonsils are burning, grit grinding into your gums as the wretched excuse of sludge crawls along your tongue.

It hadn't even made it past your front teeth before you were coughing it back out.

“Oh no you don't! Drink it!” Gloves clamp the bottle to your mouth as if she could shove the neck through to your throat, “Take it dammit do not spit it out or so help me Light I will go scorched earth!” Para takes hold of your shoulders with one arm, hand on the back of your head while the other continues to force feed you the tonic.

You can't even form a sound outside of gagging on the stench choking your lungs. The glass clanking on your teeth pinches your lips until they turn numb as what you could barely describe as liquid grass trudges along your palate, sticking into your tastebuds as if you'd just licked a boot brush. The thickness of it forces you to attempt swallowing, which shoves chunks of glued leaves into your windpipe with all the grace of mud down a drain. Strands of herbs that survived the pestal stick into your throat with the same vitriol you currently held for the doctor claiming to be helping you and if you didn't have the amount of self control you did you'd shove your fingers down her throat the same way.

Mercifully the bottle finally pulls away and you instantly start coughing your lungs out, “What the fuck-” You can't finish a word before you're right back to coughing.

“Finally. I was about to suggest an intravenous alternative, but it would take too much time putting that together. While primitive I will attest to this being effective.”

“Shove it.” The words barely make it out around you digging what feel like corn stalks out of the back of your throat, “Next time do the injection. Fuck this..”

“I wouldn't recommend it as it is rather painful compared to simply ingesting the contents directly-“

Your finger manages to shove her beak aside as you point at her, “Don't care.” Once you're able to breathe without choking you stand up straighter, wiping away what little of the nasty gunk is left on your mouth, “I'm not drinking that ever again.”

Para manages what you think is her raising an eyebrow by tilting her head before shrugging it off, “Suit yourself. Regardless, with that out of the way you've got about ten minutes before that gets into your bloodstream and does it's job so we've got some time to kill. And despite what you say I'm not letting you walk up to that ruffian again while looking like a nun.” You don't care that the bottle almost shatters when she tosses it over her shoulder towards her tent. If you ever saw it again you'd probably vomit from the memory alone.

Her comment however is the first time you actually think about your attire. The pants were borrowed from Audrey after your own were torn to pieces in a beastman fight; maybe a bit faded but nothing like her normal state of dress which involved way too many cobwebs and dirt. Your shirt was one of your older blouses buttoned up to your neck out of habit, though you did make an effort to roll up the sleeves to combat the humidity. They were the standard you'd been wearing up to this point and designed for effectiveness over decorum.

Still it confuses you what her point is. You won't deny the nun comment but it's not like you have much else, “Well what do you suggest, then? Unless you expect me to suddenly stitch together a barmaid's outfit.” The comment is more of a barb towards yourself but you won't admit it.

“That won't work and you know it. Even though I'm certain you're still trying very hard to ignore that information.” You hear the second half despite her muttering but she doesn't acknowledge it, “What you have on is fine enough but it needs some work. Adjustments to catch his eyes and put them where we want-I'm sure you've noticed a particular interest he may have in your breasts?”

Her hand is less so waved and more like she deliberately brushes the back of her hand over your chest strongly enough to press your bra into your skin. She does pull back when you jump but doesn't apologize for her behavior.

Your frustration over that does nothing, however, to quell the sudden violent reminder of what transpired not even an hour ago. Dismas being strangely overheated, stripping down to his vest and undershirt without warning. Tripping over his tongue, losing his train of thought and unable to hold a coherent conversation.

The searing heat in his eyes when they trailed down to your covered chest and stayed there. Your skin tingled under your blouse as if he'd brushed the clothing aside to place his hands there directly.

The very idea has you biting your lower lip as subtlely as you can. Out of habit you cross your arms over your chest and nearly jerk again as the pressure drags the fabric of your bra over your tightened nipples, sending shocks up your spine. It takes all you have to force out, “N-No, not really.”

“You sound very confident about that.” You glare at her with enough vitriol to scathe a corpse. She continues anyway, “Nonetheless he does. He's quite obvious about it, not sure how you could ignore it. Then again, most of us are either in combat or busy otherwise so the opportunities have been slim, it seems.”

Your face is burning again, “Para.”

“Right. Staying on point.” She moves closer and before you can react her gloves have already plucked out a few buttons, pulling your blouse open from your neck down to the very bottom of your cleavage. It's such a glaringly obvious 'look at me' card that your bra is showing.

“PARA!?” Your shriek is so much louder than you wanted it to be and it echoes in the dead forest.

For once the doctor agrees to subtlety as she slaps her hands over your mouth while aggressively hissing, “Shut your mouth you damn idiot! You want the entire kingdom to know what's going on right now??”

“Is everything alright back there?“

Too late. At the very least you can thank whatever gods are left that the voice isn't the raspy one that would certainly send you into cardiac arrest.

You manage to yank her hands off your face, “We're fine, Baldwin. Paracelsus is just-”

“Explaining some theories I have. Apparently (Y/n) is unwilling to allow me to utilize Damian's affinity for pain.”

The two of you share what you assume is the same venom filled glare. You're just mad she got to throw you under the proverbial wagon first.

“....Very well. Please do not make her ill this time.”

Bonnie makes a comment, but her voice is much too low for you to hear. Whatever Baldwin says is also quiet so you assume their conversation is personal. You do wonder why they haven't been making more commentary on what just happened, but end up dropping it as well. It's not like this is the first time you've been upset by her ideas so it checks out.

“Now.” Para tugs her hands away, “If you're ready for reason again I'd like to continue.”

Anger rushes back in , “Like hell I'm letting you continue making me look like a whore!” You whisper harshly and quickly button your blouse right back up. The fabric squishing your breasts together nearly makes you stumble.

Another one of her mask rolls, “Prude.” She promptly ignores your seething glare, “You want his attention. This is the best way to get it.”

“What part of 'nothing too direct' did you not understand?! If I wanted to bed him alone I would just ask!” You being flustered is quickly compounding with the low humidity and raising the temperature of the air between you to the point little beads of sweat are starting to cool under your collar.

“Oh so now you find the courage to use adult words. I was beginning to worry your frontal lobe had failed to develop properly.”

You throw your hands up, stepping away before you end up smacking her, “Unbelievable.” Just the motion has your bra scrubbing over your sensitive nipples again and you fight back any response to it. Your breasts feel so full and tender even when all you're doing is trying to ignore them, ignore him, his reaction to the cure Para had given him in full trust and now was left craving.

Interest? If anything, he looked ready to devour you on the spot and lick his chops clean later after savoring every bite.

She must hear the gears chugging in your head as she groans under her breath, “Alright, I'll concede. Again. But dancing around the subject will not help with the current situation for either of you because whether you want it or not this charade ends tonight or so help me I am tying you two together on top of the carriage and driving the damned thing myself.” A finger jabs into your shoulder then towards the carriage.

Despite your irritation you admit she's right, albeit begrudgingly, but you're not going to just accept that she's innocent. You're not stupid-something is wrong with Dismas. Her actions-though purposely vague-elude to some kind of foul play going on at her behest. More interestingly, there's no real reason for the highwayman's behavior. Yes it's humid but not uncomfortable, nor had he ever really had such intense focus on anything about you before.

The comment about him staring decides to take up space in your thoughts while you're in there trying to sort everything out. You bite the inside of your cheek hard before it derails you further, “Para be honest with me.”

“Depends on what answer you want.” She says it so confidently like she'd already pieced together what you were going to ask.

Her arms are crossed when you leer at her. Your hatred for that mask knows no bounds at this point, “This-whatever is wrong with him is not natural and I doubt it has anything to do with poison. He was overheated, nearly stumbling over his feet trying to get out of here. Do you have anything to do with what's going on with him that just so happens to include a liquid contraceptive.” You don;t bother phrasing it as a question, too irritated to care.

“Ah, that is something I cannot say. I fear if I do you'll lose all your nerve and I'll lose that bet." She has the audacity to wave a finger at you like she's scolding a child, "But I will admit that when he stormed out of here he was flushed and out of breath, yes, but he didn't even give me so much as a glance as he stormed off. I assume he's run off to hide for the moment to cure his ailment alone.”

You so badly want to shake the truth out of her but the mere fact she was at least slightly confirming your suspicions has your insides buzzing with heat when you realize that he'd only given you that look. It sounded like he didn't even try to talk to her or even Bonnie-whatever he was feeling if what Para said is true, it was entirely focused onto you. The giddy love sick girl stuck in your ribs is squealing in delight while the lust drunk whore in your pelvis is fluffing the pillows for the guest.

Swallowing down the saliva building in your mouth you continue, “Can you at least tell me if it's going to kill him or give him some kind of malady. I don't think there's any healing stations on the road ahead.” You do your best to ignore the slickness that's built up between your legs.

A soft sigh of relief leaves you when she shakes her head again, “No, despite my dislike of his habits I'm not going to incapacitate him for it. Though it would make it far easier to treat him. Perhaps I can concoct a simple virus to keep him still when I want to work on him-”

“No poisoning your teammates. Or anyone we work with.” Her goggles glare at you when you interrupt her musing, “If you promise me it's not going to hurt him then fine, I'll go along with this. But do not expect anything to come out of it. I am helping him, not courting him.” It's cruel but you can't have too much hope for anything more. That girl in your ribs is throwing a tantrum but you ignore her in favor of the war torn adult in your head talking her down-this isn't a romance novel, it's survival.

He is your charge. Part of your army to fight in this war. If he's incapacitated then you'd need to replace him. You don;t think about the alternative.

You want to slap her mask off when it tilts to the side as she crosses her arms, “So it's helping now? Confident in your self control, aren't we?”

“Are you going to do it? Bonnie is too young. Baldwin's not interested. Who else is here to do it?” The silence speaks volumes but you're not accepting it as a victory. Maybe between the three options you're right, none of them will help him with his current condition, which at least from what you can deduce involves sexual release. How she'd put together an aphrodisiac in the middle of the woods is beyond you, but you're not going to try understanding it. Logically she would fix it herself, however with the two of them as each others foils it would do little to help the group to use this as a way to have them sort out whatever issues they have.

So it falls to you. Whatever happens, you can only hope that it doesn't ruin you as a friend to him. If that's all you can be, then so be it. That alone makes your heart clench as if you've been stabbed again.

There's a sigh as your doctor rolls her head back, “Ugh, fine. Label it what you want, so long as it gets you two over whatever blockage has you both with your hands tied. It doesn't change that you have to make it obvious that you're going to bed him tonight.” She makes another pointed jab towards you, “If you won't entice him physically then you need some kind of sign to get him to cooperate or at least tell him what you're trying to do. If you recall not even I am capable of reading your mind.”

Your face scrunches. She's right, as much as you don't want to admit. Dismas wasn't going to allow just anyone to help him, not so much out of pride as it is principle. His mess, up to him to fix it-even if it was caused by someone else. Not that he would know of course.

The tactician takes over in place of the love sick girl banging on the door in your head, temporarily putting her in time out as she helps you rationalize. You're no scientist but you've heard about aphrodisiacs while out on the road and know the very basics about them. In order to get him back to fighting shape you'll need to help him work it out of his system manually. To do that you need to convey your intent to satisfy his needs to force the drugs out of his system faster.

So now the question is, how to explain that in as few words as possible as well as the least amount of damage to your image?

As you're thinking the wind picks up just slightly and you hear the canvas tents rustling behind you. Your eyes go wide.

Immediately you're turning around and almost jump into Dismas' tent. You rummage through his coat, nearly skewering a finger on one of his extra knives before finding what you're looking for and hastily wrapping it around your throat.

When you turn back around you find Para still standing where you'd been conversing, head tilted with fascination. She doesn't say anything as you get back on your feet, fussing with the fabric in the hopes it's less noticeable, “Hm. Interesting solution, though my curiosity lies in wondering how you knew where to find that.”

Her words slide off your brain with the effectiveness of water on a rooftop but you can't find it in you to bother with what she's saying-the red scarf around your throat feels like it's tied in a knot around your vocal chords. It's nothing fancy like silk or cotton, as you'd expected from the road bound highwayman, yet it feels soft and worn by time. There's little stitches criss-crossing all over where he'd hand stitched it back together to make it last, the threads uneven but purposeful. And most of all it reeks of gunpowder and whiskey. Of something husky and warm-of him.

You do your best to force your voice not to shake, “He put it away here after saying he was hot. S-So I doubt he'll mind if I borrow it for a while.”

“Just a while? If I were him I'd want to see you in my gear for the rest of the night.”

You give her a look that she just shrugs in response to while trying to ignore the heat coming back to your face.

“Nonetheless, if that's your plan I'll go with it. Better something than nothing, as I always say, but it needs some adjustments. Come here.” As you step closer her gloves help you fidget your collar up around the scarf until it's wedged against your skin half buried underneath your blouse, picking open a few buttons to push it down over your cleavage. Once she's satisfied she steps back with her hands on her hips, “There. Simple but effective.”

You look down at the scarf again, nerves starting to get to you, “I hope you're right. I don't know what I would say if it didn't.”

“Just ask. He'll probably say yes.“ At your annoyed glare she holds her hands up, “Message received.”

You still give her the side eye before taking a breath. That girl is back at the door knocking like her life depends on it, begging you to look deeper into the meaning behind all the coincidences that fate and one frustratingly focused doctor have gently laid down in front of you like stepping stones. That it;s not just a one time thing, that everything they're saying is true and you can have a happy ending.

But the adult in you is still in charge as she cautiously puts up wards like she's preparing for war. He could reject you, retract behind his walls all over again at best and leave completely at worst. Regardless of any of that, you need to try if only to hasten his recovery. You're doing this for Dismas. Whatever happens you'll need to accept the outcome.

Once you've steeled yourself you look to Para, who's still waiting for you to make your move, “After you.” She says while gesturing towards the bushes

Without much to say you just nod and approach the only barrier between you and the rest of the camp. The bramble opens in a lackluster flourish as you push your way back in, trying to ignore the branches scratching you on the way.

The camp is much more alive now than it was earlier. The campfire crackles warmly in the pit, fresh logs burning away inside the flames underneath the roasting body of a boar. It's head had been cut off and set aside on one of the stones furthest from the fire to prevent the mess or smell from spreading too far. Speaking of smell you take a deep breath of spices and sweet maple syrup that you didn't notice before-the tents must be upwind in this breeze, you think, which works in everyone's favor for the smoke.

Baldwin is sitting next to the fire across from you, tending to his injuries. Either he hasn't noticed your arrival or has nothing to say as he busies himself with unwrapping his knuckles to inspect them. Bonnie is absent.

Dismas is nowhere to be seen.

Stifling down the disappointment you approach the fire, “Looks like you two got lucky today.” You comment while inspecting the meat, mouth watering at the thought of a good meal.

“Yes, Bonnie and I were able to kill it while it was drinking from the pools. There's no disease, but we discarded the entrails as a precaution.” He looks up at you but with his mask you can;t tell exactly what part of you he sees. He could be looking at your face, but you almost feel the weight of his gaze locked onto your neck.

The scarf feels heavier around your throat as embarrassment threatens to well up but you shove it back into the box. No time to worry about it. Battlefield is active, movement and action is necessary.

Tactician at it's finest.

Instead you force yourself to nod and carry on, “Good idea. If worst comes to worst I have faith in Para to fix it before we infect anyone else.” You toss a look in her direction with the hopes she'll pick it up in your stead and keep him busy for a bit.

Luckily she seems to understand as her beak lifts and immediately she's turning to him with hands on her hips, “Speaking of which, you aren't trying to apply your ointment yourself are you.”

Her words make him pause, the bandages hanging loosely in his hold, “....I am capable of handling my own wounds.” Slowly his mask turns to her now with his voice low like he's correcting a child.

She doesn;t seem to care, instead aggressively pointing at his mask, “You;re not qualified to do so in your condition. You want infection? Debris in your wounds? Hellfire, maybe even one of your injuries needs stitches and you're just not telling me of it.” With every word she leans further into him, her voice rising slightly with the sharpness of a scalpel until her beak's almost touching his mask, “I swear Light help me if you've been treating yourself this whole time while we were off putting together your tent I'll stitch your mask to your face and haul you to the apothecary myself to force your medication until you're cured.”

You watch the two of them stare each other down, a bit frightened at how one simple comment had sent your doctor spiraling into violence. Baldwin at least didn;t seem so bothered by her hostility and in fact seemed to revel in it in some small way. Granted, when you think about the two of them lodged in the back of the carriage for hours on end with only combat as their relief, you'd probably be in a similar position. Especially with the responsibility of everyone's health on top of that razor's edge.

So you choose to stay silent in their showdown of stubbornness while also trying to subtly look around for a certain overheated gunman of yours.

The illusion of ownership just by being his leader is getting to you since the thought alone is causing heat to pool in your gut.

But the campsite is highwayman free when you do manage to look which makes you sober up a bit. If Para's right, he must be hiding right now. The image of him stifling his noises trying to satiate his urges comes to mind and suddenly you're wondering what he would sound like when worked up. Would he bite his tongue? Or would he let his voice go-never loud, he's not the type, but you're curious exactly what kind of sounds he would make.

His face immediately pops up in your mind with perfect clarity, scarred lips peeled back in a snarl as he growls in your ears.

Quickly you shake it out of your head before you end up leaking through your pants, heat back on your face. Neither the doctor or leper seem to notice and at some point their argument must have continued, but you choose to leave it in the background while trying to pull yourself together.

In your fleeting clarity you wonder how he's doing from a more normal perspective, if the toxins are still in his blood or not. Para never clarified if she'd cured him or just drugged him. You try to rationalize that no, she wouldn;t just leave him poisoned while trying to help you but that just reminds you of the previous tangent about giving him a virus just to do a basic check up.

Yes. Yes she would leave him poisoned. Now you're worrying about him even being alive.

But before you can voice your concerns to Para, subtlety be damned, footsteps trudge into the camp. The familiar tromp of heavy boots has your eyes snapping over to the side, the direction of where the pools are.

Dismas trudges through the grass with an unnusual hesitance. He stumbles over his own feet when he reaches the site, breathing hard with sweat glistening on his temple while his eyes are on the ground in deep concentration.

Even though he was just in his vest and undercoat with both looking like they'd seen better days, you couldn't deny that the sight of him just standing was enough to make your insides scream. That the knowledge of his suffering didn't make you several layers of sweetly sick with need and guilt all at once on top of it.

He doesn't notice you immediately which gives you a moment to just study him, taking in every delicious piece. His vest had a few stray cuts in it, you realized, slips of his undershirt visible through the damage. The cuffs had been rolled up to his wrists and exposed a tantalizing piece of his strong forearms, the wraps on his injured arm slightly visible underneath. His gloves were surprisingly absent and you nearly whimpered aloud at the prominence of the veins under his skin from how tightly he was clenching his fists.

Somehow his delirium is starting to affect you too as it almost feels like you're the one with the drugs in your system. An image of him jerking himself bare handed making you want to jump into his lap the second you got the chance, to grind your wetness across his cock until you soaked him in your desire. Your eyes flicker downward instinctively, noting with faint disappointment he doesn't seem to be hard. Which proves Para right, he is trying to handle it himself. Without you.

You're biting your lip at the image of him jerking off somewhere in the woods alone returning to the forefront of your mind. Of you taking over. Tugging and twisting with your mouth on his exposed neck until he grabs your waist and-

“I'll let you hang for it if you don't give me the sutures right now, you barbaric oaf!”

You jump right out of your skin and that delirious train of thought at the sudden shriek from Para, turning away from the highwayman as he went stock still in surprise.

Your doctor, someone who somehow convinced you she was the sanest one here, was in Baldwin's lap reaching for the needle like a child trying to steal cookies. Said king was no better as he was the one holding it over his head with a small simper on his lips. His face was most definitely level with her chest right now. It's wrapped up under those robes, you know it is, but you doubt it bothers him much at all. And a small part of you is beginning to wonder if somehow you're getting wrapped up in some game these two are playing.

At least until Para finally snatches the sutures away from him with a leap that boldly stuffed his face right into her cleavage. The second he found himself there any smugness swiftly drops off his expression as his mask snaps downward, finally aware of where he is actually looking.

You cringe in sympathy to his minor blindness.

Para on the other hand looks particularly proud of herself as she holds up the sutures in one hand, away from him like a prize, “I'll be taking these to your fingers one day, so help me.” She snips while dropping from his lap, patting the dirt off her robe, “Now if you would please strip off that blasted cloak to let me pull your blood sodden arse back together at the seams we'll be right as rain again.“

Baldwin seems to come out of his stupor at that, dropping the hand that had been holding the needle, “That will be unnecessary. I choose to let this suffering remain with me, not any of you.”

He sound so noble about his choice that you almost feel bad when Para whips around to jab a finger into his face, “You will do no such thing while I am perfectly capable of healing you! Do you think me incapable!?” In her rage she shoves her robe aside to dig out her forceps while brandishing the needle like a weapon, “I'll stitch you up to the point you won't even want to move, you stubborn bastard!”

You instinctively step away from them and the spit, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire and risk getting burned. Maybe you're at fault that you're just subjecting Baldwin to his fate but also kind of glad that their own spat is keeping them busy in a way. At the least it'll prevent either of them from interrupting somehow.

A hesitant laugh akin to bourbon has the hairs on the back of your neck bristling.

“Ya goin' ta get stabbed at this rate. An' I don't think the good doctor's goin' ta like stitch'n you back up a second time.”

Just his voice alone causes you to bite your lip against a wave of heat simmering in your guts. To make things worse, his voice was tense with repressed heat that roughened his tongue in your ear making your skin tingle. Slowly you turned around.

Dismas hadn't noticed you were there until you moved,. His smirk drops when at first his eyes locked with your own with surprise, widening slightly.

Then dropped downward.

You surpressed a shudder as you watched several emotions flicker across his face faster than you could fully process. Confusion was first yet lasted half a second, then something like stunned shock lingering before that devastating heat burst to the forefront. At the same time his jaw clamped shut so tightly the muscles twitched, fists forming at his sides.

Your pulse races to your aching clit when his stare flits to your face again. For that moment his shoulders tense, jaw ticking with restraint. Breath deepening into harsh drags you could hear from where you stood. Like he was fighting himself for control and barely succeeding.

He rips his eyes away from you just as quick.

“Ha! And ruin my good work? I'd rather hang.” Para's quip cuts into the tension like a scalpel so fast it makes your head spin. When you glance at her she'd maneuvered Baldwin to turn around and begrudgingly deal with her sewing his wounds shut. She doesn't so much as look your way as she handles the mangled bloody flesh with absolute focus.

Neither does she care when Dismas doesn't answer as his eyes dart between the brush where the tents are and the other two parties in the area in mute conflict. When he doesn't find what he's looking for he steels himself, breath clenched between his teeth as he storms off to the other side of the fire. He doesn;t even so much as glance your way again as he passes just close enough for you to catch traces of whiskey and gunpowder before without so much of a word he sits down on one of the logs as far from everyone as possible. Leaving you standing there wide eyed in shock.

He didn't acknowledge you even in the slightest. Did that mean he wasn't interested? Angry about you taking it?

No, you correct, that wasn't anger-at least not at you, it was usually much louder. You find a small amount of comfort in that even if it comes with the bitterness of his past outbursts. You choose to push past it to think about what just happened.

Knowing Dismas that was likely him weighing the options and being upset at the limited amount he had. In his state the last thing he'd want is be too open, but he'd already spoken up so the others know he;s here, likely after having already dismissing himself earlier. It was either run off and raise suspicion further or sit down and deal with it as best he can. You can tell he's not too happy with his choice.

What you can't decipher is what he's thinking about you. How he feels about you wearing his scarf, choosing to do so with him in this state. The entirety of you wants to be right for him to want, the question is will he.

Your hand trails an absent minded finger over the worn fabric. He flinches in the corner of your eye. Your insides clench.

Okay. So he sees you and is just choosing to ignore it. You know he's not ignorant, maybe he does get what you're trying to say, but is either hesitant to ask for clarity or something else is going on.

No matter what it is you can't just keep standing here staring at him like a lust drunk creep.

“Are you well, Dismas? You were gone for some time.”

This time both of you jump when Baldwin interjects. He's facing Dismas and yet you can still feel his gaze lingering on you for a moment.

“Ah, ran into a bit a' trouble back there. Got meself lost, nothin' ta'-nothin' fer ya ta worry over.” You can almost hear the click in his throat when he swallows mid sentence. Words carefully measured, yet failing to completely contain the rawness in his voice.

You know this man is a king and borderline psychic sometimes yet you still manage to be surprised when he answers, “You seem stressed. Perhaps you require medical attention.”

“I'm busy here. He can handle himself.” Para quickly butts in though her words lack the usual bite. Immediately cluing you in that she was plotting something.

“(Y/N), would you check in on him in her stead?”

“I..” You stammer, reeling from the sudden shift in tone from the both of them. From being at each other's throats to agreeing on something all within the span of ten minutes at most had to be the most jarring experience you'd had today. And you'd seen a baby made out of teeth within the last few weeks.

It hits you. The argument, Baldwin letting her work on him and Para leaving the medical work to you-it was all so you could be alone with Dismas. You knew about their bet but that they'd gone so far as working together was a new step entirely.

Or that you wouldn;t be able to make that first step on your own without overthinking yourself into a stupor. A bit too late for that, but one you'll take nonetheless.

“I can. Para's already stitched him up so it's not hard for me to check his wound's progress and see if it's infected.” You marvel at how calm you sound on the outside when inside you were positively aching at the prospect of being close to him again.

“Spare bandages aren't available but a few rags and alcohol should sterilize anything.” The doctor's head nods in your direction but she doesn't look up from her work, “A few should be over in my bag there.”

Turning around you do find the bag sitting innocently on the ground. Right next to where Dismas is sitting. Conveniently. You can tell he noticed it too when his head tilts downward and shoulders tense.

You're not going to question how she planned that out. Or how Baldwin knew where her stuff was.

Just go with it was the plan.

“Great. Thanks.” Baldwin only nods as you round the fire to the other side, the highwayman's shoulders rising ever so slightly the closer you were. When you bend down to pick up the bag his hands drop to his knees, grip tight.

You busy yourself with the contents, but you're half focused on him. His back is almost perfectly straight, knees close together like a schoolboy in detention. He keeps his head down and away in mute shame, or to control himself.

A thrill goes down your spine at being able to make him so weak just by standing here. But you correct it quickly; as far as you know you're just the closest woman right now. This could just be his body giving him false positives due to the drug. Nonetheless you procede; you still need to check up on him after all.

“Dismas.” He suppresses a flinch at your light tone, “Do you mind if I check on your injury?”

He stays quiet for a moment but you can hear his shallow breath hitching in his chest before he swallows, “I..uh..” He mumbles as he stumbles over his words, “Yeah. If'n ya want.”

It's almost cute how he's struggling to pull himself together under your gaze. He's shorter than you when sitting which puts his face much closer to where you can see the little imperfections in his skin deform in minute changes to his expressions. The scars on his lips stretching as they tighten, a tick in his jaw from chewing on his tongue, the way his eyes flit away from you entirely.

Warmth settles deeper into your belly. A familiar rush down below slickens your sensitive flesh as you pull out the rags and small bottle of medical alcohol you;d found upon opening the bag. He inhales sharply as you pass him to sit on the log beside him, instantly curling into himself slightly as if the distance would keep you away. It doesn't.

You know he's suffering so you don't take offense to it. Still, you wonder just how bad off he is. He's not salivating in a way you can see, not desperately vying for your attention-but that's just information you've gleaned from random encounters and overheard conversations across brothel bars, things that very well may have no basis in reality. So far, all you know is he's desperately trying to ignore you.

You raise an eyebrow, “Don't tell me you're going to try avoiding me now, Dismas. You let me help you earlier.” The attempt to draw him out works as his body unfurls slightly but he keeps his legs firmly in place, only allowing his head to turn enough to let you see an eye flick to you.

“Eh? Ah-Er no. I-” You can see the war within him to answer, a laugh huffing out that sounded less confident than normal, “No I don't think I got it in me ta try.”

There's a double meaning in the way he says it. Breathy and heated like he'd just ran a mile in lead shoes, except the lead was made from whatever emotions burned within him right now. And he was losing that race quickly as he swallowed hard.

You try not to shudder as his gaze drops for a moment, the scarf a leaden weight of your own.

“Alright. Then you won't mind letting me look at you. Right?” The words are purposefully phrased to be double sided. A question, an offer.

And you see it hit him square in the jaw. The dilation in his eyes swallowing the forest green in black until a thin ring remained, jaw clenching tightly with a shuddering breath. Hands forming fists on his thighs that shake with the effort. The ever so gentle lean into you.

Then the bitter cold wash down your back as he snaps back, head turning away with a stuttering gasp, “Actually I think I'll be fine. No need ta waste the stuff on me, yeah?”

You blink. The rags and bottle weigh down your hand at your side where you had been ready to play the act of nurse.

Panic starts to crawl up your throat. Stuttering breaths start to heave in your chest. All the variables that were aligned fire off in different directions. You've lost control of the situation and yourself all at once.

Were the both of you wrong all this time? Did he not have any interest in you? In your help?

All your desire falls out your ass with your stomach. The urge to do damage control building up in your ribs until you feel sick to your stomach from the rejection. You start scrambling for anything to salvage the situation, sending a panicked look towards Para who had also looked up from her work and was staring at him. Both of them were.

Baldwin makes a motion with his hand, the same arm Dismas had injured.

You try to calm down. That;s right, you'd started this with the pretense of checking his arm. You can do that, “I-I mean, you did get bit by a poisonous bug. I doubt you'll dead but someone needs to look at it.” You stammer.

He doesn't take the bait, waving said arm slightly, “Yeah but I feel fine. No worries 'bout it.” There's no real fire behind his words however. His breath shudders with every inhale, deep and raspy yet kept soft as he tried to hide it from you.

That paranoia that he might be really poisoned takes the forefront in your anxiety riddled mind. Maybe you'd never get to have him but at the least you could keep him alive. You cling to this thought as you tighten your hold on the alcohol bottle, “Dismas-please stop being difficult. I know you f-feel bad,” Understatement of the century, he was practically seeping with pent up desire that almost drripped down your spine in turn and was just refusing to let you help, but you swallow the words before you shoot yourself in the foot with them, “But you need your wound checked before it gets worse.”

He still adamantly refused to look at you, going a step further by turning the shoulder closest to you into himself, “'M tellin' you 'm fine. Don't get yer knickers in a twist about m' problems, I cun handle meself.”

The anxiety and panic mixes into a horrid little concoction of frustration tinged with rage at his comment, “Don't worry about it? It's my job to worry about it, I'm the one dragging you lot out here into all of this!” You gesture wildly to the literal dying forest everywhere around you ignoring the sudden flinch of his shoulders when your hand nearly clips him, “Do you really think I'll just leave you here to die of whatever poison you got from some rancid bug?”

The soft groan he makes is tortured, “(Y/n).....”

You just scoffed. Arguing would get you nowhere and you weren't in the mood for it, desire thrown out the window, “Don't '(Y/n)' me, you're going to get yourself beat to Hell in the state you're in.“ You reach out with your open hand.

You get as far as grasping his bicep when he lurches in his seat. His shoulders turn inward with the groan of a man lost to his desires and you flinch back at the intensity of it. As you struggle to understand what's gotten into him he suddenly braces his legs open as if he can't stand having them closed anymore, the motion drawing your attention.

He's hard. Painfully so, with the length of it stretching the leather of his pants tight up to his belt to the point you can see it twitch in time with his pulse. Along with the fact that his belt is a few notches undone, exposing his complete lack of undergarments.

Heat sears up your neck at the same time your stomach drops. The noises from the campfire fade out as every bit of your being focuses onto him. It's as if your brain fries as it realizes just how close you two are as well as what just happened.

Did you just….?

Heat scours your insides at the thought.

As your hand lingers he drops his head into his palm gasping for air. Sweat is pouring down his face, pink flushing across his cheeks as he tries to compose himself. For a moment he glances towards you from the corner of his eye-the sheer intensity of his stare causes your core to clench white hot.

Before you can react he jumps to his feet. He stomps towards the pools with a finger jabbed towards Baldwin hissing, "Not a word, leper,"

The bushes close behind the highwayman, leaving you sitting in silence as you shudder with searing heat pooling underneath you.

No one speaks. You can't even make yourself try as it feels like your vocal chords are tied into knots. The heat in your belly returns white hot, seeping liquid desire right through your panties. And the light breeze does nothing to cool your steaming red face.

Dismas just came. From you touching him. You. Not anyone else. You touched him.

“Huh.” Your head snaps to Para staring in the direction Dismas left with bloodied sutures in hand. She taps the side of her mask thoughtfully, not seeming to care if blood smears on it, ”Seems I may have miscalculated the strength. The dosage as well, perhaps.”

You're on your feet in an instant, bottle and rags long forgotten, “Wha-You mean it's actually worse!?”

“Possibly. It's been a while since I've needed to use any, as well as kept track of it's age.” She says it with so much calm even Baldwin has to look back at her with surprise from the sharp frown he gives her.

A twisted cocktail of fear and lust mix in your chest with the same ferocity of a runaway wagon on fire as you realize this has gone outside of just her trying to help you with your selfish little dream, it's exploded into something that very well might kill him. There's no telling what she'd introduced into his systems outside of bolstering his lust.

You're already chasing after the gunman before you have any time to think about what comes after.