#And money in those baby boots | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

happyyyandcrazyyy · 10 months ago

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matching bracelets (kaz brekker x reader)

summary: when (y/n) buys kaz a bracelet she does so as a joke, she knows he’ll never actually wear it. imagine her surprise when she sees it dangling around his wrist.

based on the prompt: person A gets person B a friendship bracelet, expecting person B to never wear it, but when it’s given to them person B puts it on and is rarely seen with it off.

warnings: mentions of blood and torture (not explicit, briefly mentioned)

kaz taglist: @the-tpd-bau @ellievickstar @thestudiouswanderer | soc taglist: @ancientbeing10 (if you want to be added or removed from the taglist just dm me!)

a/n: guess who's back after a year of being mia!! i've been working on a lot of fics, but inspiration just hasn't been there, so i'm going slow, i don't like to force myself to write if i don't feel like it. anywaysss, i hope you enjoy this one! it was such a fun ride to write :)

Jesper opens the door with a loud bang, strutting into the Slat with his head held high and a slight jump in his step. He’s whistling good-naturedly, his left hand twirling a pistol and his right hand holding a rumpled piece of paper.

(Y/N)’s right hand— which had immediately reached for the pocket knife in her boot at the tumultuous noise— retreats back to her side. She relaxes, letting her shoulders sag and briefly looking down to make the final correction on a contract Kaz had her look over, left hand holding the pen and swiftly moving over the paper.

Jesper makes his way towards her, still whistling. She follows him from the corner of her eye, a slight smirk taking over her features. He’s in a good mood, the kind of mood he’s only ever in when the Gods are in his favor and he manages to miraculously not gamble away all his money. It’s not something that happens often.

“Did you win some?” she asks, already knowing the answer but enjoying the way the Sharpshooter preens under the attention. Jesper, very much in character and to (Y/N)’s delight, twirls around and does a ridiculous dance before taking a small bow.

“Baby, I won a whole lot.”

She huffs out a laugh, leaning back as she watches him place the pistol in its respective holster before plopping down on the chair by her right side and tossing her a small bag.

(Y/N) catches it smoothly, reflexes as sharp as always.

She doesn’t need to open the sack to know there’s kruge in there; the sound of coins jiggling against each other is a dead giveaway.

Jesper winks, a teasing smile on his lips. He tips his chair back, feet on top of the table, “Because you’re my favorite.”

It’s really because he owes her more kruge than he’ll ever be able to repay, but (Y/N) plays along. She’s never cared much about money, anyways.

“You sure do know how to charm a lady,” she smirks.

“I’m good at charming gents, too.”

“Versatile.”

“You know me.”

(Y/N) smiles, softer around the edges this time, something reserved only for her closest friends. She’s about to being correcting another contact— she has twelve to go through, all because she’d been bored and had decided annoying Kaz would be a great way to spend her time, he obviously hadn’t agreed —when Jesper slides over the piece of paper he’d been holding in his right hand. In the time he’d made his way towards her he’d somehow managed to crumple it completely.

She takes it, half curious, half willing to do anything to procrastinate revising and correcting those stupid documents.

“Brought this for you, too. I’ve got the feeling you’re going to enjoy this much more than the money.”

Her eyebrows furrow with curiosity as she slowly opens up the paper.

Ink contrasts the yellowish hue of the paper. Her own face greets her, drawn by hand, but fairly accurate.

(Y/N) (Y/L/N)

Wanted dead or alive.

1,000 kruge.

She can’t help the snicker that falls from her lips

Jesper is right. This is better, much better.

“Can’t believe it’s only a thousand this time,” she huffs, a small pout on her lips. “I must be losing my touch.”

Jesper snorts at that.

(Because she hasn’t lost her touch, not even a little, and they both know it. Just yesterday she’d managed to get vital information out of a Black Tip member with a single touch and a minimal amount of bloodshed. Three days before that she’d disposed of a rival gang member who’d been speaking too freely and she’d made sure his body would never be found. Two weeks prior to that Kaz had sent her to steal a miniature stature and she’d done it without a hitch, forging an identical copy in less than five days. No, she still very much has it.)

“I might have to go overboard next time,” she muses quietly to herself, “do something that will raise the bounty to at least two thousand five hundred.”

She traces the outline of her name, biting down a smile when Jesper snorts.

“You’re insane,” the Sharpshooter deadpans, the fondness in his tone almost tangible.

(Y/N) smiles wickedly at him, “So they say.”

Marbles is what they’ve nicknamed her around the Barrel. They say she’s lost them all. And it must be true, she must be out of her mind, because having a bounty on your head in Ketterdam is nothing less than a death sentence. It means having the most ruthless assassins coming after you, all looking for a way to make fast money. It’s living with the constant fear of someone sneaking up on you and slicing your throat, of having your food poisoned, of being choked to death in your sleep, of having your closest friends betray you as a means to survive. But to (Y/N), who has been part of the city’s underworld since before being able to formulate words, who has had any sort of ability to feel fear beaten out of her, this is nothing but one of the most amazing sources of entertainment. It keeps her on her toes, brings an adrenaline rush that does not compare to anything else. She must be crazy because any sane person would be paralyzed in fear, running for their lives, and yet all she can feel is the comforting thrill of being in mortal danger. (And, yes, it is comforting. She was raised to be a weapon, trained to withstand any form of torture; having Death peering over her shoulder is something she’s comfortable with, something she’s used to, something that soothes her). Besides, even if she wasn’t deadly confident in her own abilities (which she very much is), and even if she was able to feel terror overtaking her limbs (which she doesn’t think she’ll ever feel again), the title she holds would be enough to keep her relatively safe; she is Kaz’s right hand, and no one dares touch something that belongs to Dirtyhands.

(Y/N) stares at the poster for a little while longer— they got her nose wrong, made it too pointy —before smirking to herself. She knows how this will all go down, has seen it played out a few dozen times before (this is a regular occurrence, after all, a bounty is placed on her head every couple of months, whenever she loses her temper and murders someone who was deemed untouchable, or steals something much too valuable for her blood-stained hands). So, yes, she knows how this will go; the bounty will stay up for a couple of weeks, long enough for a few to dare try to kill her, and then it’ll be removed by whoever placed it once they realize it’s futile, once they see how everyone who even dares breathe too close to her winds up dead. She hopes the assassination attempts are entertaining, she hopes whoever dares come after her head gives her a good fight, if only to keep things interesting. It’s been a while since she’s had some unrestrained fun.

(Kaz keeps her on a tight rein, knows better than to let her run around freely. To say things can get out of hand when she’s left to her own devices would be an understatement.)

“Again?”

The voice comes from behind her, and (Y/N) doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is, she heard his steps since before he even walked into the room. (It’s easy to know when it’s Kaz, he subconsciously places more weight on his left leg to keep the right one from aching, it makes his footsteps distinctive.) Still, she angles her head to meet his eyes. He’s leaning over her chair, cold eyes watching the bounty poster with disdain.

He’s never said it but (Y/N) knows that he doesn’t appreciate her life being imperiled. She is, in a way, an extension of him, and therefore any threats to her he sees as direct threats to him. Dirtyhands doesn’t take it well to being threatened.

“It’s okay, boss,” Jesper calls out. He’s still tipping his chair back, now playing with his guns. (Y/N) is kind of tempted to lean forward and kick one of the chair’s wooden legs, just to watch him struggle, possibly even fall. But Jesper’s known her long enough to realize when she’s on the verge of becoming a nuisance because his eyes narrow playfully and he lets the chair’s weight drop forward, “I wouldn’t worry too much.”

From the corner of her eye, (Y/N) can see the way Kaz’s face morphs. It’s almost indistinguishable, but she notices it. She thinks she would be able to spot the most minimal change in Kaz, she’s known him long enough for that. (Y/N) watches in amusement as he opens his mouth, no doubt to argue that he isn’t worrying at all, because Gods forbid he ever outwardly cared about anyone, but Jesper beats him to the punch and keeps going, “Heard some of Pekka’s Lions talking ‘bout how they’re not even going to try to come after her this time.”

“How boring,” she mutters to herself in disappointment, reaching for her glass of whisky. She’d meant for the comment to go unheard but Jesper’s snicker tells her that she wasn’t successful.

She takes a chug as Jesper points an accusatory finger at her and smirks, “That’s all on you, Marbles.”

At her bewildered look, he elaborates, “Two of them said something about not wanting to meet the same fate as the Razorgull guy from a couple of months ago—” (Y/N) smirks at that. The guy had deserved it. He hadn’t just tried to kill her, but also grope her. Murder she could understand, respect even, but touching someone else without their consent? No, she drew the line there. She’d had him swallow his own testicles; it’d seemed fitting enough. “—and the other one said that even if you hadn’t done that, he wouldn’t come close, not with you being Kaz’s right hand,” Jesper pauses for a second, a smug smile appearing on his lips, “and his best friend.”

Their reaction is instantaneous; Kaz goes rigid at the words and a smirk takes over (Y/N)’s features.

Oh, if the night didn’t just suddenly get better.

She glances up at her best friend, only to find him already glaring daggers at Jesper, who shrugs helplessly and innocently says, “Just telling it like I heard it, boss.” The flicker of amusement in his eyes reveals that he’s very much aware of just how much ammunition he’s provided (Y/N) with.

(Y/N)’s smirk becomes wider and gains a teasing edge when Kaz looks down to meet her eyes. His eyes harden, explicitly telling her to not utter a single word. Sadly for him, she has never been one to follow the rules, and Kaz must notice she’s not about to obey because his face morphs slightly, just enough to show the most minimum amount of discomfort. He cringes just the tiniest bit, bracing himself.

He knows her too well.

“You hear that?” she asks him, tone light and filled with amusement, “We’re best friends!”

“We are not,” Kaz tenses his jaw as he replies. He backs away from her, as if creating physical space between them will somehow stop the words from leaving her mouth and making their way towards him. As if distance could make her less of an bother.

(Y/N) fake gasps, clutching the skin over her heart in the most dramatic manner, “You wound me deeply, Kazzy.”

Jesper snorts, coughing to try to drown the laughter. She might be the only one who doesn’t get a knife to the jugular when calling him that.

Kaz’s eyes snap toward the Sharpshooter and the look must be deadly because Jesper quiets down immediately and tries his best to evade the boss’s glare. Kaz’s gaze then shifts towards (Y/N) and she perks up at the way his eyes harden even further in annoyance. He’s told her a million times to drop that ‘ridiculously stupid’ nickname and she’s decided she never will, not when it drives him to this point of exasperation.

(She’s a thrill chaser, you see. That’s what happens when you’ve seen just about everything and lived twice as much; few things get your heart pumping. And getting on Kaz’s nerves? That’s always exciting. (Y/N) never knows what to expect of him. The Bastard of the Barrel is unpredictable in a way that’s just delightful.)

“If you call me that one more time—”

“What are you gonna do? You can’t possibly try to hurt me. Best friends don’t do that to each other,” she mocks.

His eyebrow twitches, her grin stretches.

Oh, she’s going to have a field day with this one.

It’s obvious that Kaz knows he’s not winning this discussion because he walks forward, snatches the revised contracts and makes his way back to where he came from.

“Get those done before tomorrow afternoon.”

Boring. She was expecting more banter.

(Y/N) turns around to watch him leave, unable to stop herself from throwing a sarcastic, “Sure thing, bestie.” She does her best to sweeten the last word in a way that she knows will infuriate Kaz.

He freezes.

Bingo.

Even from afar, (Y/N) can see the way he tightens the grip on his cane. She’s thoroughly disappointed when he doesn’t throw a dagger her way. That would’ve been exciting. He takes another route, one she should’ve seen coming.

“I’ve got seven more files that need to be corrected. Collect them when you’re done with those.”

The corner of her lips tugs upwards slightly. There’s something thrilling about playing this game with Kaz, of seeing how much one of them can push before the other yields. He’s skilled and she enjoys the competition.

She ignores his order, “Goodnight, Kazzy.”

He slams the door on his way out, the only visible sign that she managed to get on his nerves. That’s mildly entertaining. Causing even the slightest slip of Kaz’s control over his temper is a success in her books.

“You’re out of your mind,” Jesper informs her.

She raises her glass of whisky at him and winks.

And that’s how it begins, as a joke. (Y/N) refers to Kaz as her best friend on every given chance. His reactions never disappoint.

There’s a lot of death threats;

(“Don’t mind him, bestie here is always grumpy.”

Clenched jaw, an exasperated sigh. “I will murder you.”

“Don’t tempt me with a good time, Kazzy.”

There’s a knife thrown her way. (Y/N) catches it with ease, whistling good-naturedly. She smirks when she catches the look of annoyance in Kaz’s face.)

and a lot of not so kind words thrown her way.

(“I get special best friend privileges, right?”

“You get tolerated,” Kaz mutters, “barely.”

“That might be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me. Now tell me you love me.”

There’s that Brekker glare, one that would send anyone to an early grave. (Y/N) just smiles sweetly.

“Get out.”

“Whatever makes you happy, best friend.”

She cackles as she closes the door behind her, the curses Kaz is sending her way loud enough for her to hear.)

All in all, (Y/N) is as happy as can be. Having the time of her life, really. It’s not often that she finds something that makes Kaz fume. He plays the game too, of course. He has her going over financial documents and legal contracts on her free time, knowing just how much she hates the bureaucracy, and he gives her the household chores she despises the most. Still, (Y/N) doesn’t complain. She does everything with a smug smile on her face. The annoyance that flashes through Kaz’s face makes it all worth it.

The bracelet isn’t something she plans for, it really isn’t, but the Saints place the opportunity right in front of her and who is she but a mere mortal that must obey the signs evidently laid by otherworldly deities (or whatever bullshit those religious fanatics preach).

(Y/N) inspects the wristlets in her hand. They’re black and rough, made of broken-down nets that fishermen dispose of near the pier when the material has worn down beyond repair and is no longer useful. The little girl who had sold it to her couldn’t have been older than seven, and yet the design was more than decent. (Y/N) had offered three kruge for it, much more than it was worth. The child had looked delighted, had thanked her profusely as she’d placed the coins inside her worn-down shoes.

Oh, (Y/N) cannot wait to see Kaz’s face.

“What’s that?” Jesper asks as she meets up with him, eying the bracelets with a gleam of interest. He twirls his guns absentmindedly, missing the way some of the fishermen glance at him with distrust.

“Oh, you know, just some matching bracelets for me and my best friend.”

Jesper snickers, shaking his head and proceeding to let out a low whistle.

“This might be his breaking point.”

“Wouldn’t that be delightful.”

“You’re insane, Marbles.”

She gives him a wicked smile accompanied by a wink. She’s about to retort when she catches sight of a shadow on the corner of her eye. She recognizes it immediately as her target. Shopping, as fun as it had been, wasn’t the reason she and Jesper were waiting by the pier. They’ve got orders. She has people to torture and interrogate and dispose of— preferably in a quiet manner —and Jesper is Kaz’s way of making sure she’s got her back covered. (Not that she needs backup, but whatever, she has tried arguing with Kaz about it and it’s the one thing he won’t relent on, the one matter she’s accepted she won't ever win. Kaz doesn't play when it comes to her safety.).

“If you’re kind enough to hold these for me,” she places the bracelets on Jesper’s unoccupied hand, “I’ll be back before you know it.”

They make it back to the Slat before sunrise. (Y/N) had been quick and efficient, as she always was, and Jesper had been a quiet and solid shadow, as he always was.

“I assume it all went according to plan,” the Bastard asks when he hears their steps coming into his office. It’s late, or rather extremely early in the morning, and yet (Y/N) isn’t surprised by Kaz’s presence. He rarely sleeps.

“It went without a hitch, boss,” Jesper responds, resting against the doorframe.

(Y/N) hesitates for a split second, her memory providing a brief flashback to the interrogation she’d done, to three little words the man had let slip out: they’re coming for you.

A warning or maybe a promise.

Thrilling, either way. It wasn’t often that she was verbally threatened.

At the time, she’d dismissed the words, too filled with bloodlust to pay them any mind, but now, with a clear mind and a steady heartbeat, she suddenly remembers her face plastered on paper all over Ketterdam and wonders if the words might be related to the bounty on her head.

Oh, she hopes so. That would prove to be fun.

They’re coming for you. Good. Let them try.

She nods her head in agreement with Jesper’s words. Kaz nods in approval and then jerks his chin Jesper’s way, a clear sign of dismissal. The Sharpshooter never walks into Kaz’s office after missions like this. He’s an escort, a babysitter of sorts, merely Kaz’s way of making sure she heads his way instead of making a beeline for her bed.

(Y/N) sticks her tongue out at him and Jesper blows her a kiss in response.

Lucky bastard. It’s always her that has to stay up to report. And she hates to admit it, but she’s tired, she can feel the exhaustion begin to creep on her bones and settle in. She has been up for more than thirty-seven hours at this point, and she can feel it catching up to her. Still, she knows that Kaz prefers to hear details when the information is fresh on her mind, when she can provide as much detail as possible, so she pushes through for him. She just has to wait a little while longer before crawling into her bed and passing out for the next twelve hours.

“Marbles comes bearing gifts by the way,” is the last thing the Sharpshooters says before exiting.

A smirk takes over her features, sleep, exhaustion and the new information briefly forgotten.

Kaz is going to hate it.

Lovely.

Kaz seems to sense, probably by the wicked amusement on her face, that whatever it is it’s not something he’s going to enjoy. His face twists into a scowl.

“Out with it, then.”

She pulls out the dark bracelet from her pocket as she walks towards Kaz, dangling it in front of his face when she’s close enough.

Jesper had handed them back on the way home, tossing them over as soon as she’d wiped the blood off her hands. He hadn’t said a word, but (Y/N) knew that the action had meant to snap her out of the weird haze that clouded her mind after every mission, where adrenaline still coursed through her body and all she could think about was bloodshed, fingers itching to kill and maim and fight.

(It was a thing, the haze. When taking lives there was nothing but calmness and bloodthirst, the restlessness that always lingered beneath her skin subsiding as soon as a weapon was placed in her hand and orders were given. And as soon as the mission was done, as soon as the target was neutralized and she’d efficiently fulfilled her orders, fogginess followed. Her mind became clouded, as if somewhat trapped in a loop of violence, every nerve on edge and ready for any threat to emerge.

She was brought up as a killing machine, a child soldier, the best out of all the assassins produced by the Silent Blades, her father’s pride. She was ruthless, wretched, or at least those had been the words used to describe her when she’d been a child. She supposed the dissociative state she slipped into was normal when considering her upbringing, some sort of psychological shield that kept her from going insane.

She never spoke about it, but the Crows somehow knew. They often eased her out of it, knowing full well that when trapped in that state she had not an ounce of thought and only muscle memory to rely on, which made her infinitely more lethal.)

Jesper’s actions had worked like a charm. With something else to do with her hands, the fogginess had ruptured. She’d absentmindedly tied one of the bracelets on her own wrist, fingers playing with the edges of the other.

It’s that bracelet, the one on her arm, that Kaz glances at now. It’s brief, but for a split second the scowl etched on his face softens and something that she can’t quite catch passes through his eyes. It’s gone before (Y/N) can even begin to process it.

“Best friends have to have matching bracelets, don’t they?” And if she wonders about it later, she’ll blame it on the exhaustion, but the words come out softer than she intends them to. A jest, but not any less truthful.

Kaz’s face morphs and she gets a fleeting glimpse at that flicker in his eyes again. His scowl melts into something a tad bit gentler, the look contrasted by the aggressiveness with which he snatches the bracelet from her hand, “You’re the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” He means that and his tone has enough bite to make her cackle.

Amusing.

Placing her hands on her back pockets and shrugging, she responds, “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Kaz snorts, “Go take a bath.” He dismisses her, turning around and making his way to his desk, “Reports can wait until you don’t look half dead.”

That’s unexpected.

(Y/N) raises her eyebrows, “You’re being nice.” It isn’t often that Kaz forgoes a report after a mission. He might’ve been more touched by the gift than he’s letting on.

“It’s for my own sake,” he retorts, not turning around, “you just stink and it’s making me nauseous.”

She does have a lingering smell of blood and sea water.

“Everything in this damned place stinks,” she responds. I know you’re lying, she’s saying, I know you’re being kind.

“Get out.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” (Y/N) mocks, walking out of his office.

She sleeps a full day after that, everyone knowing better than to bother her unless they want to lose to their head, and when she reports to Kaz the next morning the three words she’d heard from the man slip her mind. (Y/N) doesn’t remember them until a few weeks later when she’s tied to the ceiling by her wrists, face bleeding.

Now, she must admit, she’s impressed. No one had ever tried kidnapping before. There’d been more attempts on her life than she could even count; stabs resulting in blood being shed, never one drop of hers, poison that she had either swallowed down like a champ or identified before a single lick of it touched her tongue, because being raised an assassin meant she’d been trained in the art of toxins and she’d built up tolerance to pretty much every substance in existence, and that one time they’d tried to shot at her, which only resulted in (Y/N) stealing Jesper’s gun and placing a bullet right between the perpetrator’s eyebrows. All in good fun. Kidnapping was new, but only because those who had attempted on her life had never tried joining forces, all of them wishing to keep the financial reward for themselves.

Torturing, that was new, too.

She could endure, of course she could, she’d been trained for this. That did not mean she’d missed it.

The poster had stated she was wanted dead or alive and it was clear that the man in front of her wanted to take his time. It was personal, she could tell by the brunt of his hits and the delicate precision of his cuts. Had she been anyone else, she would’ve been begging for it to stop, but (Y/N) was a Silent Blade, even if she’d left the organization and that life behind, and she would never break.

The only reason she was in this situation was because the assailants had gotten the upper hand. They’d used one of (Y/N)’s street urchins— a little girl with piggy tails and two missing teeth, one of the ones who gathered information for (Y/N) and traded it for food and shelter —as leverage. And time had apparently made her soft because she’d hesitated. The brief second of doubt had been everything they’d needed.

Them subduing her didn’t mean she’d gone down without a fight. There’d been five of them in the beginning. Only three remained. She’d plucked one guy’s eye out, going deep enough to sever the optic nerve and cause brain damage, and she’d ripped the other’s ear with her teeth before slitting his throat. She’d managed to stab one of the three men remaining with a dagger before being injected with some unknown serum. It hadn’t knocked her out, not the way it was supposed to if the incredulous look on her kidnapper’s face was any indication, but it had drugged her enough to allow them to overpower her.

And now here she was, slowly bleeding out.

“I intent on handing your corpse to them and claiming the reward.” He’s been quiet for so long that (Y/N) had almost forgotten his presence. She doesn’t raise her head, only looks up. It’s hard to do so when her right eye is swollen shut. “But they never specified the conditions it had to be in.”

The man has his back towards her, fingers running through a box of tools. He’s used almost all of them on her by this point. Amateur. A skilled torturer knows to go slow, to drag it out, to choose a weapon and stick to it until the person is weeping and screaming.

“It was my brother that you killed.”

That sparks her interest, a smirk taking over her bloodied lips. She looks at him, dead in the eye.

“Which one?” she taunts.

The sound of her voice, still strong despite the blood loss, startles him. He freezes for a split second, hand over a wooden baseball bat.

“What?”

She snickers, blood dripping into the floor. “I’ve killed a lot of men, darling.” The way he seethes, fury filling his features, amuses her. “So which one was your brother?”

“You had him swallow his own testicles.”

“Oh, him,” she nods her head in appreciation. “Can’t say I regret it.”

Now he’s fuming, hand shaking so badly he almost loses the grip on the bat. If (Y/N) looks close enough she can see the resemblance. Same brown hair, same nose, same crazy look in their eyes.

“I’ll make you regret it.”

“You can certainly try,” she concedes mockingly. Because, honestly, there’s nothing he can do to her that she hasn’t already withstood.

There’s a raging roar and then a burst of pain. A hit to her abdomen, which no doubt bruised a rib, and then two to her back. But it’s okay, she thinks to herself as she wheezes and coughs, trying to regain air in her lungs, she knows how to play this game and how to win it. Keep him talking, keep him angry, let him think he has the upper hand, keep him from noticing how she’s preparing to break free.

“I wonder…” he murmurs, bat dragging behind him. “You’re not particularly remarkable.” She scoffs as he begins circling her, a tactic supposed to drive the prisoner into panic at the lack of vision of their assailant. Her heart doesn’t stutter. She’s trained to identify people and objects by sound not sight. She knows precisely where he is, even if she can’t see him. “So, what makes you interesting enough for the Bastard to keep so close?”

She grins, feral and with bloodstained teeth.

“Why don’t you come closer and I’ll show you?”

His face does not change but his step falters. “You cannot believe me stupid enough to fall for that.”

“You were stupid enough to tie my wrists with handcuffs,” is all she replies before dislocating her own thumbs and releasing herself from the shackles.

She hits the floor hard, body swaying for a second. Her hands are numb, nerve endings frayed. It hits her, now that she has to keep herself outfight, just how much blood she’s lost. The edges of her vision blur.

There’s a cut on her thigh, it bleeds heavily. Her back is all flayed skin. Breathing is hard.

It doesn’t matter. She only needs four fingers and half a mind to hold and use a dagger. She shakes the dizziness off.

He comes at her, but she’s expecting that. Sidestepping him is easy, kicking him in the back as he passes by even more so.

“You’re not much without your friends and a syringe full of drugs, are you?” she stumbles a little as she taunts him. Time is not on her side, she knows this. He’s cut deep in her arms and legs, no major artery touched, but with precision to give her a slow and prolonged death. She’s been steadily bleeding for hours.

(Y/N) has to end this. Soon.

He comes for her again, and she dodges, punching him right in the gut. He feigns left and she moves away, noticing too late the fist that impacts with the right side of her face. Despite the pain, she manages to stomp his toes and slam her knee against his balls.

That does it.

A high whimper leaves his mouth and as he struggles for air, she backs up. Keeping her eyes on him, her right arm reaches back to the toolbox. She knows what she’s grasped as soon as her fingers graze it.

“Say hi to your brother for me.”

The scalpel lodges itself right on his carotid artery.

“Nice,” she mumbles in delirium as she hears him choke to death. It’d been a majestic throw.

The adrenaline is gone in a second. (Y/N) stumbles backwards, barely aware of all the tools scattering around in the floor. She lets herself rest against the wall, slowly sitting down on the floor.

She’s going to die.

It doesn’t matter that she’s managed to get rid of that poor excuse of a man. She’s too injured. She knows.

(Y/N) isn’t scared. She’s tangled with Death for a long time, and as cold begins to creep in and the edges of her vision blacken, it feels like welcoming an old friend. It feels like getting what she has always had coming for her.

The tips of her fingers begin to tingle, her body’s desperate effort at keeping her heart pumping. Her ears are ringing, hard enough that when shouts begin all that she can hear are muffled sounds.

Then someone’s touching her face. She greets the warmth.

“Fuck,” she hears as she tumbles forward, her forehead landing on a collarbone. Jesper grasps the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. At least, she thinks it’s him. Her brain feels mushy, but her nose has never failed her, and it smells like gunpowder and mint.

She’s laid down on the ground gently, probably to inspect her injuries before moving her.

“You’re going to be okay,” the Sharpshooter reassures her, but his voice is trembling. He’s scared. She must look worse than she feels, and she feels like she’s been attacked by a group of Heartrenders.

She wants to speak, to tell him it’s okay, but opening her mouth feels like an impossible task.

“Save your energy.” That’s Kaz. His voice is steady, but she can feel the underlying tension, the worry in his words. “You are not dying tonight.” And he says it with so much conviction, like he would hold her soul with his own hands to keep it anchored to her body, like he would keep her heart beating with pure willpower.

Her eyes look for him, but she catches sight of something else entirely.

“You’re wearing it.”

She must make no sense, words slurred, but Kaz understands. His whispered words are the last thing she hears before slipping out of consciousness.

“How couldn’t I?”

Then there’s nothing. She loses track of time. She comes back to her body from time to time, able to hear words but incapable of pinpointing the speaker. She’s floating, but there’s pain and aching.

“…too much blood, I don’t know…”

“…keep her alive.”

“I am trying!”

“Don’t try, do it.”

“…punctured lung, broken ribs…”

“…don’t know how she’s still alive.”

When she comes to the first thing that she feels is blinding pain. Everything hurts. Her muscles complain as she sits up. She clenches her jaw to keep the tears at bay. The worst is already over, she will not cry.

“Don’t move,” (Y/N) freezes at the command, her head snapping towards the voice. “Nina stitched you back together, I doubt she would be very happy to see all her hard work ruined.”

She gently eases herself back on the bed, fingertips running over her bandaged stomach. She can feel the edges of the stitches poking through it. It must’ve been bad, then, if she required stitches to keep the wound together. Usually, she’s a fast healer, a result of all the training she’d gone through.

“How long?” Her voice is raspy after not being used. Her throat hurts, which might be related to the way she was choked to the verge of unconsciousness several times while held hostage.

“Four nights.”

Bad then.

(Y/N) can feel Kaz’s eyes on her, assessing. She meets his stare, and it’s when she’s looking at him that a vague memory comes back.

Her eyes drift down to his wrist.

The twin bracelet to her own, the one she keeps tightly wrapped around her wrist, as if part of her own skin, greets her.

“You are wearing it.”

Kaz frowns in confusion, until he follows her line of sight. He looks away, hand clenching and unclenching over the head of his cane.

“Even after almost dying you’re still insufferable,” he responds.

But when he looks back at her, (Y/N) can see everything in his eyes.

How could I not, he’d said, and he’d meant it. If friendship was something that could bloom in a wretched place like Ketterdam, Kaz was her best friend and she was his, even if they’d never discussed it, even if they would never admit it. You’re the steady order to my unrelenting chaos, she thought to herself, someone I would follow to the end of the world.

He nods, as if reading her mind and agreeing with her.

“Rest.” That’s an order, one she has no intention of disobeying.

“Sure thing,” she responds as Kaz makes his way towards the door, “bestie.”

(Y/N) can feel the amusement in his words, “Absolutely insufferable.”

She smirks, toying with the ends of the bracelet’s strings.

(Y/N) never takes it off. Neither does Kaz.

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timmydraker · 5 months ago

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CW: Implied SA, P3dophillia, (dubcon) sexual content

Jason hates galas the most out of his siblings.

Coming from his Crime Alley background and his death, it’s always uncomfortable with the subtle grimaces and obnoxious remarks.

The only reason he goes is because if he doesn’t Bruce won’t give him any allowance even though he’s twenty three, but it’s hard being a crime lord so he’ll take the money.

As usual, he sneaks off after a solid hour. He gives Dick a nod to let him know he’s leaving just so his older brother won’t freak out upon not being able to find him, and makes his way down the hall of the building he’s in to find the elevator.

Unfortunately it’s one of those stupid rich people ones where the elevator looks like a normal door so he has to look for the buttons, which leads him to get turned around a few times until he hears something interesting.

The sounds of obvious sex, cringy and almost fake sounding, makes the asexual in him gag but the crime lord curious.

A few times now he’s blackmailed rich folk with evidence of them cheating so if he can get someone else to give him some pocket money, he won’t need to come to the next gala…

As Jason carefully gets closer o the door, pulling out his phone, he can really tell that one voice is way too high and practiced. Fake, like those pornos his men watch too loud in their communal lounges for some bloody reason.

Apart of him is giddy at possibly finding some random richy guy being a shit fuck, if only because he finds the whole thing funny.

He opens the door slowly, making sure not a sound is heard from it, before peaking in to see what the situation is.

The first thing he sees is a guy who can’t be younger than fifty jerking his hips rapidly and huffing like a puffed Chihuahua, pathetic and kind of concerning. He’s on a couch angled so Jason can’t see his face, but the greying hair tells him everything.

It makes him have to hold back a snort but then his eyes trail over to the person underneath him.

Unlike the older man, the person is young and clearly not enjoying himself.

Jason only has a moment to realise this is probably a closeted gay man when his brain catches up and he realises who the other person is.

He only had a second to be disgusted because oh ew, gross gross gross, that’s his baby brother before shit that’s his baby brother.

Tim is the one making those performing noises.

Tim is the one being pressed down by a guy three times his age.

Tim is the one who’s making noises like he’s enjoying himself but is looking off to the side with a mostly blank face.

Tim, who’s only been eighteen for two months, is the one being used by some crusty old fuck and is seemingly pretending to enjoy it.

Jason wants to rush in and start attacking, to rip the guy off his brother and maybe punch his face into mush, but then he meets Tim’s eye and he feels his heart break.

Because Tim looks so ashamed, so disgusted with himself as he spots Jason and looks away with clear guilt in his eyes. He looks like he wants to crawl aaay and hide forever and Jason gets that because duh, his older brother just caught him having sex, but something about the situation just doesn’t feel right.

Jason thinks he should leave and give Tim some kind of talk later but then the older geezer on top of him speaks, “Fuck, Tim, you-god you’re so fucking tight, so perfect, such a good little bitch! Missed you little hole for months-“

The growl Jason lets out isn’t entirely human, something unholy that probably came from the pit, as he throws the door open and barges into the room.

Tim shakes his head as if to tell him to stop, but Jason is quicker.

He’s also quicker than the man who, ones his rips him off his little brother before he even process the door opening, he realises is a senator. He throws the man down, kicks his stomach in three times before driving a boot to his head.

Wordlessly he turns to his brother who is tearily pulling his dress pants and struggling to hold back sobs.

Jason holds out his hands in offer of a hug and is relieved when his brother accepts, because it means that physical touch hasn’t been ruined for him completely.

After just a few moments he mutters a warning to his brother that he’s going to pick him up and takes him out of the room with a last kick the man’s head.

He probably won’t die, but the brain trauma will be enough for Jason.

For now at least.

Jason holds his baby brother close to him as he takes him down to his car, finally finding the elevator with Tim’s silent help, and takes him back to his apartment.

On the way he sends a message to the demon brat, simply saying:

Don’t let anyone look for or bother me and Tim and I’ll buy you a snake.

#batfam #tim drake #bat family #dc comics #batfamily #dc universe #dc #tim drake is red robin #damian wayne #jason todd is red hood #jason todd #Jason Todd is a good brother

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heartlilith · 1 year ago

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WHAT THE VENUS SIGNS REMIND ME OF

🩷Oddly specific things I think about when I hear ______ venus

Aries Venus: Summer, rubies, Mr. and Mrs. Smith, rollercoasters, fast cars, the color red, vampire fangs, Saturday nights, liquor stores and gas stations, fireworks, sour candy, cool bic lighters, “you’re mine”, Mario Kart, boys who wear nail polish, fuck it energy, oversized sweatshirts, middle finger emoji, cherries

Taurus Venus: Satin pillowcases, white candles, pearls, mirrors, hand holding, walking someone home at night, vinyls, red lipstick, full lips, fancy dinner dates, the wine and dine, old romantic movies, wallets and purses, hotels, French manicures, old money, “I won’t get on my knees for no man”

Gemini Venus: Driving around at night listening to music, reading to someone, comedy shows, mimosas, Samantha from Sex and the City, libraries, nerd kink, hot teachers/student kink, emerald green, laughter, swing sets, looking out of the window and just watching, untied shoelaces, dogs and puppies, dad jokes

Cancer Venus: Soft feather pillows, a bowl of warm soup, a bubble bath, tears and running mascara, babies and how babies laugh, poetry, “I’ll be whatever you want me to be”, hot tubs, hot coffee, teddy bears, heartbeats, soft hands & skin, lotion, bagels and cream cheese, doodling in your journal

Leo Venus: Lip gloss, mojitos, getting drunk at brunch, diamond tennis bracelets, drunk texts you regret sending later, the block button, lonely nights, shooting stars, blowing bubbles, piggy back rides, art museums, glittery eyeshadow, jumparoos, birthday parties

Virgo Venus: Taking a shower, Dove soap, smooth skin, symmetry, butterflies, the smell of books, getting a facial or going to the spa, chicken caesar salads, the good tasting water, chunky headphones, acoustic guitar, running errands, getting your eyebrows done, neat handwriting, neutral colors, sushi

Libra Venus: Blush, dimples, Y2K fashion, Hello Kitty, makeup skills, those little hand mirrors, princes and princesses, cupcakes, pedicures, Margaritas, taking pictures, art, castles, Disney movies, daisies, spin the bottle, cartwheels, soft hair, bubblegum, skincare, watermelon and pineapple

Scorpio Venus: Psychology, neck tattoos, “until death do us part”, Kings & Queens, snakes, sacred sex, chess, secrets, hickeys, the feeling after you stay up all night, the feeling of being at a concert, roses, knives, tequila shots, legs intertwined, dirty martinis, sparklers, Avril Lavigne, fantasy books, true crime and dark history

Sagittarius Venus: Clouds, rock climbing, rappers, Hip Hop and R&B, going on vacation, açaí bowls and fresh fruit, sun kissed/radiant skin, the color yellow, retreats, history, yoga and Pilates, spicy food, “it is what it is”, curly hair, the smell of weed, casinos, the last day of school, Las Vegas

Capricorn Venus: Leather, red wine, the cow pattern, cowgirl boots, the color brown, espresso, dark chocolate, briefcase of money like in the movies, the movie Scarface, whiskey on the rocks, bosses, owls, turtle necks, caramel, wearing suits, lingerie, business, New York City

Aquarius Venus: Lightbulbs, telescopes and microscopes, LED lights, hamsters, college parties, glitter, peace signs, 70s concerts, food trucks, skipping school, “fuck it”, diving in the pool, the beach at night, disco balls, getting detentions in school

Pisces Venus: Mermaids, kittens, cartoons and Disney princesses, champagne, Webkinz, little kid stories like Goldilocks, 3 Little Pigs, Hansel and Gretel, clear glittery lip gloss, holographic, snowmen and icicles, swimming in the pool, flower gardens, glow sticks , picnics, bumblebees, sand castles, elementary art class, 3D movies

Book a Reading 🩷

Masterlist 🩷

#astrology #astro #astro observations #astrology community #astro community #sagittarius #scorpio #leo #cancer #venus signs #venus #Leo venus #Aries venus #Taurus venus #Scorpio venus

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arthurmorganswh0re · 6 days ago

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The Things We Carry

about: you tell arthur morgan you're expecting. he has a hard time accepting his new reality, juggling his responsibilities with the gang. a new life calls for arthur, but his past pulls him in the opposite direction.

tags: angst, pregnancy, illness, tb, death, loss, grief

wc: 15.7k

an: hi so i put this together over the course of a week. i had the idea of what life would've been like if arthur got someone pregnant but the tragedy that happens in the game still happens. so this is really sad imo, and REALLY long. hope you enojy :3

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The sun was dying slow behind the mountains, bleeding rust and gold across the sky. It should’ve been beautiful, the kind of sunset folks wrote songs about, but your stomach was twisted tight, a dull ache blooming in your chest. You leaned against the split-rail fence just outside camp, your fingers knotted together, cold even though the air was warm.

You could hear him before he even came into view. The sound of hooves crunching through dead leaves and fallen branches, his horse’s low huff, and then his voice–rough, tired, familiar.

“Y’alright out here?”

You turned slowly. Arthur swung down from his saddle, dust rising at his boots. He was already frowning, something unreadable behind those blue eyes. He didn’t like the quiet, not from you.

“I been lookin’ for you,” he added, taking a few steps closer. “You missed dinner.”

“Wasn’t hungry.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed deeply. “That right?” He studied you for a moment, head tilting slightly. “What’s wrong?”

There it was.

You looked at him–the man who’d carried you across rivers, pulled bullets from your leg, whispered soft but broken apologies into your hair when he thought the world was ending. And still, somehow, this felt harder than all of that.

“I need to talk to you,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrowed just a little. “Alright.” He leaned against the fence besides you, arms crossed, glancing sideways. “Talk, then.”

You hesitated. There was no soft way to land this. No way to pad it with kindness. So you just said it, like pulling a bandage off a bullet wound.

“I’m pregnant.”

The words hit the air like gunfire. Sharp. Irrevocable. Loud, even in a whisper. Arthur didn’t move. He didn’t speak, or blink. The only sound was the breeze brushing through the pines and the distant murmurs of camp behind you.

You turned to him, trying to find his eyes. “Did you hear me?”

He straightened slowly, like a man waking up inside a nightmare.

“What did you say?”

“I’m pregnant, Arthur,” you repeated, firmer this time. “I’m gonna have a baby. Your baby.”

For a split second, something flickered in his face. Something raw. Then it vanished behind a wall of cold, practiced detachment.

“Goddammit,” he muttered, turning away from you. His hands went to his hat, taking it off before raking through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. “Jesus Christ.”

Your chest squeezed. “I didn’t plan this Arthur.”

“Well no shit, neither did I!” He snapped, spinning back toward you. “You think I got time to be somebody’s father? You think that’s a good idea, right now? With everything goin’ on?”

You flinched like he’d hit you. “I didn’t say it was a good idea. I just thought you deserved to know.”

He paced, boots heavy in the dirt, a storm rolling behind his eyes. “You don’t know what you’re sayin’. You don’t know what this life is. I can’t keep you safe, I can hardly keep myself safe. I kill people for money,” he spat, “I lie, I steal–I ain’t no man a child should be lookin’ up to.”

Your voice cracked. “I’m not askin’ you to be a hero, Arthur. I’m just telling you what’s real.”

“Real?” he scoffed bitterly. “Ain’t nothin’ about this life real, not really. It all ends bloody. You know that. So what, you wanna bring a child into it anyway?”

“I didn’t choose this,” you finally snapped, “it happened. And I’m scared, alright? I’m scared outta my goddamn mind. But I’m still standin’ here. I still told you. That should mean somethin’.”

He went quiet again, breathing hard, hands flexing uselessly at his sides now. The fire was gone from his eyes and what was left was something worse. Emptiness. Shame.

“I ain’t no good for you,” he said, barely audible.

You blink back the burn in your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”

He looked at you then–like he was memorizing your face for a day he already knew was coming. His jaw clenched, hard.

“How far along?” he asked, gruff.

You swallowed. “Couple months, maybe less.”

He nodded slowly. That muscle in his jaw twitched again. And then, he stepped back. “I need to think,” he said, almost choking on the words. “I–I need to clear my head.”

You opened your mouth to speak but nothing came. Just silence. Just the sinking feeling in your gut as he turned, climbed back into the saddle, and rode off into the dusk without another word.

The wind picked up behind him, colder now, as if it carried the weight of what had just broken open between you.

And you stood there, alone in the failing light, hand drifting instinctively to your stomach, wondering if he’d come back before the world burned down around you.

The days bled together like bruises—blue and yellow and aching.

Arthur didn’t say a word.

Not a damn word since the night you told him.

He didn’t storm off again. Didn’t yell. He just… slipped away, day after day, like a shadow shrinking in the light. He rose before camp stirred and came back well after sunset, when the fires were low and the air was heavy with sleep. You’d catch glimpses of him—sharpening his knife alone by the wagon, brushing down his mare in the dark, smoking in the trees with his back turned. Always just out of reach.

He avoided your eyes like they might burn him. And worse? He never said your name. Not once. Every time you passed close, every time your hand hovered near his on a shared task or your eyes lingered too long—he moved away. Like you were poison.

At first, you were angry.

You’d built something with him. Earned his trust in a world where most folks had to fight just to stay human. You’d shared nights wrapped in blankets under the stars, whispered truths into the hollow of his throat, watched him flinch at your touch not out of hate, but out of unfamiliar tenderness. He chose you—over doubt, over fear, over all the mess of the gang and the blood that clung to his hands.

And now? He was gone without ever leaving.

You tried, the first day. Quietly approached while he fed the horses, voice low and careful.

“Arthur…”

He didn’t look up.

You tried again the next afternoon, your voice sharp with frustration.

“You don’t get to just pretend I don’t exist.”

He kept walking.

By the third day, you stopped trying.

You felt like a ghost in your own skin, caught somewhere between furious and hollow. Not just for you, but for the life growing inside you—silent, unseen, and already left behind.

Even Dutch noticed the tension, though he said nothing, just gave Arthur one of those long, assessing looks across the fire. Hosea, bless him, opened his mouth once to ask if you were alright, then closed it again when he saw your face.

And you? You tried to go about your days like nothing had changed. Gathered herbs. Cooked. Patched your torn shirt. Held your composure like a knife between your teeth. But at night—those were the worst. When camp was quiet and the stars pressed down and you could hear the distant murmurs of Arthur’s voice talking to anyone but you.

One night you stood in the shadows behind a tree, watching him laugh softly at something Charles had said. It hit you like a punch to the ribs. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t in pain. He’d just shut you out. Tucked you away like a mistake he didn’t know how to unmake.

You pressed your hands to your stomach, eyes burning, and whispered, “I’m sorry, baby,” into the cold dark air.

Because whatever Arthur Morgan was running from—you were part of it now.

The next morning, he rode out before dawn. Didn’t say where he was going. Didn’t say goodbye. Just like before. And the issue—the truth of it—hung between you both, thick as smoke and just as choking. Unspoken. Unresolved. Like so many things in his world.

As he left, something inside you went still.

Not shattered—not yet. Just... cold. Numb. Like your heart had folded itself in half and tucked away behind your ribs for safekeeping. You lay in your cot staring up at the pale canvas of your tent ceiling while the camp stirred outside—pots clanging, voices low, hooves thudding against frost-hard earth. It was just another day in a world that didn’t stop moving, even when yours had.

He wasn’t coming back.

Not to you. Not to this.

Maybe he hadn’t meant to be cruel. Maybe silence was the only language he could speak when he was drowning. But knowing why didn’t change the ache. It didn’t make it easier to carry the weight of him—and the life growing inside you—alone.

By the time you emerged from your tent, the sun was climbing through low clouds and a few flakes of snow drifted down, slow and aimless. The gang was bustling—Bill was already drunk, Tilly was peeling potatoes, and Dutch was giving one of his sermons by the fire, voice full of honeyed hope and half-truths. Nothing had changed, not really.

Except you.

Your hand lingered at your belly again, a soft, unconscious gesture now. You were starting to feel different. Not much, but enough. A flutter of nausea some mornings. A new kind of tired in your bones. A quiet awareness of something not quite visible but still entirely real.

And no one knew but Arthur. And he had left you alone with it.

You avoided the questions—told Miss Grimshaw you were just sick, waved off Tilly’s concern with a forced smile. No one pushed. Not yet. But the pressure was building like thunder on the horizon.

That night, you sat alone near the edge of camp, watching the stars through bare tree branches. The fire crackled low beside you, but you didn’t add more wood. You liked the quiet. You needed it.

You thought about leaving.

You’d thought about it before, in passing. But now the idea rooted deeper, more real with every breath of winter air. What were you waiting for? Arthur to come back and pretend he hadn’t abandoned you? Dutch to notice and offer some poetic bullshit about fate? The gang to change?

No.

You knew better.

This life was a dead-end road—drenched in blood, shrouded in smoke. You had followed it long enough. And now, for the first time in a long while, you had someone else to think about. Someone who hadn’t asked for any of this. Someone who deserved better than a cradle made of stolen gold and broken promises.

The decision came slow, like a fire building from embers. Quiet, steady, irreversible.

You were going to leave.

Not tonight. But soon. You’d need to be smart—take supplies, money, maybe even a horse. You weren’t sure where you’d go, not yet, but the world was big, wasn’t it? There were towns where nobody knew your name. Farmlands. River valleys. Places where children were born without gunfire outside the window.

You spent the next few days preparing in secret. Quiet, careful. You mended saddlebags. Stashed food in a hidden pack under your cot. Pocketed bits of coin from jobs you hadn’t turned in. No one noticed, or if they did, they didn’t say anything.

The air got colder. Snow stuck to the ground some mornings, lingering in the shadows. You began to wear a heavier coat, buttoned low over your belly. No one asked. Maybe they didn’t want to know. Or maybe they knew and chose the same silence Arthur had.

Either way, it didn’t matter.

You were leaving.

Then, one night, you crept out before dawn. The moon was low and the sky washed silver. The camp was still sleeping, curled in tents and dreams and old regrets. You paused near Arthur’s tent. It looked the same as ever—neat, quiet, impersonal. As if he might return at any moment and slip back into place, as if nothing had ever changed. But you knew better now.

You stepped forward. Hesitated. Then left something small at the flap—a folded note.

You didn’t write much. Just a single line, in your uneven, looping script.

I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.

And that was it.

You saddled a horse—quiet, a mare you trusted—and rode out under the veil of a waking sky. No tears. No theatrics. Just the crunch of hooves over snow and the slow bloom of morning behind the trees.

You didn’t know what lay ahead. Towns, danger, loneliness. Maybe worse.

But you also knew this: you were strong. Strong enough to survive this world. Strong enough to carry what Arthur couldn’t.

You rode on, hand on your stomach, heart full of silence and fire.

And for the first time in days, you felt something like peace.

The camp was half-awake when Arthur finally returned. He had been gone on a long hunting trip with Charles, bringing home a variety of meats and pelts like elk, moose, and beaver.

Snow clung to Arthur’s coat, stiff and crusted. His horse was tired, ribs heavy from the hard ride. He didn’t speak to anyone—just tied her near the hitching post, nodded at Pearson’s half-hearted greeting—acknowledging their bounty. He trudged through camp like a man halfway through a bad dream. He didn’t expect to find anything waiting for him. He hadn’t really expected you to wait, either. But when he reached his tent, the first thing he saw was a small folded piece of paper, tucked just beneath the flap like a whisper someone left behind.

He stared at it for a long time. Snow melted in his hair. Cold sank into his boots. But his hands didn’t move—not until his chest felt tight enough to crack. He bent down, fingers brushing the worn edges of the paper. It still smelled faintly like you.

“I’m going to do this with or without you. But I wish you’d come with me.”

There was no signature, you hadn’t needed one. Arthur stood there for a while, the paper trembling just slightly between his calloused fingers. He stared at your handwriting until the ink blurred. Then he folded it carefully, like it was something holy. He opened the flaps to his tent, walked in, and sat on his cot he once shared with you. He thought long and hard about what to do next. Should he follow you? Or just find you? Should he let you get away from the dangers of the gang, leaving everything unsaid? For a moment, he was confused.

Then, he decided the right thing to do was to find you. At least to know you’re both okay. For peace of mind, he told himself.

It took him close to a month to find you. Weeks of bitter wind and half-frozen trails, of sleeping under pine trees and asking questions in dusty towns. He’d asked too many people if they’d seen a woman on horseback—strong-willed, quiet, brown eyes, maybe wearing a coat too heavy for her size. Most shook their heads, some offered a guess. One said she saw someone that sounded like you riding north, toward Strawberry. Arthur hadn't meant to feel hope when he heard that. But he did. And that hope kept him riding straight through the storm.

When he finally reached Strawberry, the town was blanketed in soft, half-melted snow. Smoke drifted from chimneys. A dog barked somewhere behind the sheriff’s office. The main street was quiet but not empty—townsfolk bustled in and out of the general store, a rancher tied off his horse outside the saloon, and the sky overhead was gray with the weight of coming snow.

He tethered his horse near the general store and made his way toward the inn. The woman behind the counter barely glanced up until he said your name. Then she nodded, almost cautiously. “She’s got a little house up behind the falls,” she said. “Bit outside of town. Walkable if you don’t mind a climb. Been keepin’ to herself mostly.”

Arthur thanked her with a tight nod and turned away before she could say more.

He found the house nestled at the edge of the woods—small, crooked-roofed, with a low stone chimney and a fence half-built around the back. Smoke curled from the chimney. There was laundry strung between two trees, fluttering in the cold wind. A horse was grazing nearby—he recognized her. One of the mares from camp.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. You were here. You’d really done it. You made a life—without him.

He knocked before he lost his nerve. At first, there was nothing. Then he heard it—footsteps inside. A quiet shift of movement. The door creaked open an inch, just enough for you to peer out. Your eyes widened. For a moment, you didn’t say anything. Neither did he. Just that snow-heavy silence between you.

Then softly: “Arthur.”

He swallowed hard, unsure what his first words to you would be. “You just left.”

You opened the door the rest of the way. You looked… different. Not worse. Just changed. Stronger in some ways. Tired in others. A little paler, maybe. But your eyes were clear. And your belly had begun to show.

He noticed you had a hand resting gently over your stomach.

“I left because I had to,” you said. “You gave me nothing, Arthur. Not a word. Not even a look.” Silence fell. “I waited. And then I made the only choice I could.”

He stepped forward, his voice low and rough. “You think I didn’t notice? I was tryin’ to protect you, goddamn it.”

“By pretending I didn’t exist?”

“By not dragging you down with me.” His voice almost an ashamed whisper. He was angry, but not at you. It wasn’t ever at you–it was to himself. At his own fear, his own cowardice.

You stared at him, your voice calm but heavy. “You weren’t protecting me. You were avoiding me.”

Arthur looked away, jaw tight. “I know.”

The wind rustled the trees. A pair of crows shrieked overhead, then flew off into the gray sky. Arthur’s voice was slow when he finally spoke again.

“I was scared. Of what it meant. I don’t know how to… do any of that. How to take care of you. I was…” he paused for a second, searching the space between you two for words he couldn’t form himself. “...I was afraid I’d ruin everything. That i’d break somethin’ I love.” The words escaped him in a hush.

You blinked at him. That word hung there—love—suspended like breath in the cold. A word he so rarely used for you. A word reserved for moments like these. Rare, raw, and tender.

“But that don’t mean I didn’t care,” he continued. “It don’t mean I didn’t think about you every second of every damn day since you left.”

He met your eyes then, and his voice broke on the edges. “I was angry when I saw that note. Not cause you left—but ‘cause I didn’t go with you. And that ain’t your fault. That’s mine.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, finally, you stepped aside and nodded toward the inside. “Come in,” you said softly.

He hesitated only a second before crossing the threshold.

The cabin was warm. Simple. There were blankets by the fire, food on the table, a kettle steaming. It was a life—not fancy, but real. Tangible. Safe. Something he knew he couldn’t offer you.

Arthur looked around like he didn’t quite believe it was all yours. All yours.

“Guess you didn’t need me afterall,” he muttered.

You turned to face him, arms crossed, a quiet defiance in your stance.

“I wanted you. That’s different.”

Arthur looked at you, and for once he didn’t try to explain himself. He just let the silence fall again, softer this time. And after a while, he stepped forward, slow and careful, and rested a hand over yours on your stomach. You didn’t pull away, neither of you said anything.

The kettle whistled low and steady in the quiet of the cabin, catching your attention. You walked across the small cabin towards the stove where the kettle sat patiently. You poured the tea with slow, deliberate movements—hands steady, though your heart felt anything but. Arthur sat across from you at the small wooden table, hands clasped around a chipped mug, eyes tracing the grain in the wood like it held answers he couldn’t find in you.

It had only been a few weeks but it felt like another lifetime since you’d last spoken—since you last looked him in the eyes and seen something other than guilt buried in them. The fire cracked in the hearth, casting golden light over the room. Outside, the snowfall had started to thicken. Fat flakes drifted sideways in the wind, gathering along the windowsill and piling slowly against the porch. Arthur glanced toward the window, jaw tensing slightly.

“You’re not gonna make it back to camp tonight,” you said quietly, watching him. He didn’t argue. “I’ve got a spare bedroll,” you added, eyes flicking down to your tea. “You’re welcome to stay. Just for the night. It’s… safer.”

Arthur hesitated, then gave a slow nod. “Yeah. Guess that’d be smart.”

Smart. Right. Logical. Reasonable. So why did it make your heart twist in your chest?

Time passed by slowly, slower than what was comfortable in all honesty. But the two of you caught up slowly, like two people trying to reach each other in a language they’d almost forgotten. You told him about the town, how the general store clerk gave you extra oats when he noticed you were eating for two. How the lady at the inn had helped you find the little cabin. How quiet it was out here, how lonely, sometimes, but how peaceful too.

Arthur listened in silence, nodding now and then, gaze never straying far from you. He didn’t interrupt. Just sat there, hat in his lap, looking like he’d aged a little more since the last time you saw him. He told you he’d been running jobs between looking for you. That the Pinkertons were getting too close. That Dutch was getting restless, dangerous. That the world he lived in was unraveling—and fast. He admitted that he was thankful you got out at the time you did, especially considering the baby you now carried.

You asked him if he was alright, he lied and said he was fine. But you saw the wear in his eyes. The way he sat too stiffly, like he was waiting to run. Like he wasn’t sure if he was welcome here or trespassing on something he’d already lost. Later, after the sun dipped low and the wind began to howl harder through the trees, you made supper. Nothing fancy, just stew and bread and the last of the salted meat. He thanked you with a nod so quiet it almost didn’t reach his lips. You ate in near silence, listening to the wind rattle the shutters to the cabin.

When you both moved to the fire, you sat on opposite sides. The warmth between you helped, but the space still yawned wide with unspoken questions. Arthur cleared his throat. “I ain’t gonna pretend like I didn’t mess up,” he finally spoke, voice rough, eyes on the flames. “I did. I know that.”

You glanced at him, waiting. He fidgeted with a loose thread in his glove. “I don’t know what I’m doin’. With you. With the kid. I ain’t had someone depend on me like that in a long time. And I ain’t got much left in me to give.”

You looked at him a long while then said, “I never asked you to be perfect, Arthur. I just wanted you there.” The words hung in the air between you, quiet but heavy.

“I know,” he muttered.

You both fell silent again. The wind moaned outside, louder now, a storm building on the ridge. You pulled your blanket tighter, feeling the ache of old hope stirring in your chest—hope you didn’t quite trust anymore. When it got late enough to yawn, you laid out the spare bedroll beside the hearth. You didn’t ask him to share your bed. You didn’t offer. And he didn’t ask. But you lingered, both of you, staring into the fire like it might hold something more than flickering light and fading warmth. Finally, he laid down with a groan, one arm folded beneath his head. You extinguished the lantern and climbed into bed, facing the wall. Neither of you fell asleep immediately, simply laid awake in the quiet comfort of each other's presence.

You rolled over, checking the time. Past midnight. You sat up, staring through the dark cabin towards the now dying fire of the hearth. Something told you that he was still awake. With a voice barely above a whisper, “Do you want to be in our child’s life?”

The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the floor. You couldn’t really see him from where you sat but you imagined his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling, mouth drawn tight. For a long time, he didn’t answer.

Then: “I don’t know.”

Your heart sank, slow and heavy.

But then he added, voice lower now, more raw: “I want to. I just… I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. Like I messed up everythin’ else.”

“You can’t undo the past, Arthur,” you said. “But you can choose what you do next.”

He stayed quiet for a long moment, his silence saying more than he could.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” you reassured him. The quiet hung between you like smoke.

You saw him nod, just once, like it hurt to do it. “Alright.”

You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t reach for him. Neither of you moved. But something shifted in the stillness. A step, a breath, a beginning, maybe.

And in the deep hush of a snowbound night, you both lay awake, listening to the wind, the crackle of coals, and the slow tentative beating of three hearts trying to learn each other again.

The next morning came blanketed in white—the snow thick on the porch railings, the trees sagging under its weight. There was no point trying to ride out. The roads were buried, the air sharp and bright with winter silence. You stood at the window with a steaming mug between your hands, watching the frost climb the glass.

Behind you, Arthur stirred. You didn’t turn around.

“I’ll split some wood,” he said, voice hoarse with sleep.

You nodded. “Axe is out back.”

It was a small thing. A simple thing. But it was the beginning.

That first day, you watched from the porch as he chopped kindling. His coat hung open, breath fogging in the cold. He worked without saying much, but he didn’t complain either—not about the cold, or the blisters, or the snow piling up around his boots. Every now and then, he glanced toward the house. Toward you.

You pretended not to notice.

He carried the firewood in and stacked it by the hearth. You nodded to him when he came in, and he gave a short grunt in reply. Then he sat at the table while you prepared breakfast—oats, some berries you’d dried from the fall. You passed him a bowl. He muttered a soft “thanks.”

The silence was different now. Not sharp. Not full of tension. Just… new. Careful. Like neither of you wanted to scare it off.

The days passed like that. Slow. Simple.

Arthur fixed the fence behind the cabin, tightening rails and replacing slats where the snow had cracked the old ones. You offered him soup afterward, and he sat close enough by the fire that your knees brushed under the table. Neither of you pulled away.

He mucked out the little barn beside the house, fed your mare, helped patch the draft in the window above your bed.

You caught him standing in the doorway more than once, watching as you folded linens or stirred something over the stove. He never said anything when you looked back—but he didn’t look away either.

That unfamiliar pull grew stronger with every quiet chore. Every wordless glance. Every brush of your fingers as you passed each other in the narrow kitchen.

And still, neither of you spoke about what this was.

Or what it might become.

On the sixth night, the snow stopped.

Stars appeared—faint, but visible through the thinning clouds. The moon glowed soft and full, casting silver over the trees. Inside, the fire had burned down low, throwing flickering shadows across the walls.

Arthur stood near the hearth, hands resting on the mantle. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow. You sat on the edge of the table, watching him quietly.

He turned.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, voice low.

You tilted your head, unsure where it was going.

He hesitated, eyes on the floor. “About you. About this place. The baby.”

Your hand went unconsciously to your belly.

Arthur looked up. There was something in his eyes you didn’t expect.

Not fear. Not shame. Something softer.

“I ain’t good at this,” he said. “Any of it. But I feel… different here.”

“Different how?”

He took a slow step toward you. “Like maybe I could be someone else. Someone better. Even if it’s just for a little while.”

You blinked, heart tight in your chest.

“Do you want to be here?” you asked. “With me?”

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen to me,” he said quietly. “Camp’s still out there. Dutch is still out there. My past, all of it—it ain’t gone.”

He came closer.

“But right now? All I know is this feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever been.”

Your breath hitched. And in the quiet that followed, you stood. Walked toward him. Met him halfway. The kiss came slowly—tentative, uncertain. His hand was warm against your jaw, calloused fingers trembling just slightly. Your hands settled at his waist, anchoring yourself to him. He tasted like salt and cold air, like woodsmoke and something unspoken. Something real. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t smooth. But it was honest.

When you pulled away, you didn’t say anything at first. Neither did he. You just stood there, inches apart, breathing the same space. Then Arthur gave a short, almost broken laugh.

“That okay?” he asked, voice rough.

You smiled, faint and sure.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That was okay.”

The fire burned low. The snow outside had stilled. And for the first time in a long while, the weight of what you carried didn’t feel quite so heavy. Not when someone might finally be willing to carry it with you.

Days turned into weeks and before you knew it, Arthur had been at the cabin for 2. Life seemed content, calm. You were happy, and Arthur seemed…happy too. Your belly growing by the day, and Arthur’s affection growing along with it.

Arthur had started to fall into a rhythm that felt dangerously like peace. He’d wake early and tend to the horses, the quiet hum of your morning routine comforting in its familiarity. Sometimes you’d sit together at the table, hands brushing as you reached for the same spoon. Other times, he’d find himself pausing in the doorway, just to watch you move around the little cabin like you belonged there—and like maybe, somehow, he could too.

But peace is fragile when you come from a life built on gunfire and running.

You were inside by the fire, mending a shirt. Arthur was outside, splitting the last of the firewood, when he paused—head tilted, brow furrowed. The sound of horses echoed down the ridge. Not one. Two.

He moved toward the front porch, wiping his hands on a cloth.

You stepped outside just as the riders crested the path.

John Marston was the first to dismount—coat dusty, a tired look in his eyes. Behind him, Charles followed, calm as ever but serious. They both looked cold, weather-worn, and—Arthur noticed it right away—urgent.

“Arthur,” John called out, his voice taut. “We’ve been lookin’ for you.”

Arthur stiffened. “Didn’t know I was missin’.”

John gave a humorless laugh. “Dutch sure thinks y’are.”

Charles slid from his saddle, giving you a polite nod before turning to Arthur.

“He sent us out days ago,” Charles said. “Said there’s a job comin’ up. Big one. He needs everyone back.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched.

You stepped down from the porch, eyes scanning the two men.

“What kind of job?” you asked.

John looked at you for a moment, then turned back to Arthur.

“Blackwater. The ferry,” he said grimly. “Dutch says it’ll be the last one. One big score, and we’re done.”

Arthur looked down at the snow-covered ground, fists curling at his sides. The cold crept up his spine, but it wasn’t the weather. It was the weight. The pull of obligation. The noose of loyalty tightening again.

“He needs you, Arthur,” John pressed. “He’s been getting… unpredictable.”

Arthur’s throat was tight. “He’s always unpredictable.”

Charles crossed his arms, quiet but firm. “We’re not here to twist your arm. Just… Dutch is counting on you. You’re the only one who can talk sense into him.”

A long silence settled over the yard.

You looked at Arthur, and he could feel your eyes like fire on his skin. He didn’t look at you. Couldn’t. Not yet.

“Why now?” he asked, finally. “Why this one?”

John shifted, glancing toward the horizon. “We’re losin’ ground. Pinkertons are closing in. We’re out of time.”

Arthur dragged a hand down his face. “Goddamn it.”

You stepped forward, voice calm but firm.

“So what, Arthur? You just go back? Just like that?”

He turned toward you, eyes flashing with conflict. “I don’t know!”

The air turned brittle. The sound of the wind in the trees was the only thing filling the space between all of you.

“I been tryin’,” Arthur said, his voice cracking. “Tryin’ to be here. To do something that ain’t just robbin’ and runnin’. But I still got people countin’ on me.”

You crossed your arms, holding yourself tight.

“I’m not asking you to turn your back on the gang,” you said, quieter. “But you can’t keep doing both. You can’t keep one foot in that life and one here.”

Arthur looked down, jaw tight.

Charles watched the exchange, saying nothing, but you could see the understanding in his eyes. The quiet sympathy. He’d always been the only one who truly saw Arthur.

“I’ll wait by the horses,” Charles said after a moment, and he walked off without another word.

John lingered a bit longer. He looked at Arthur, then at you, then back again. “You’ve got some thinking to do,” he said, voice rough. “But don’t take too long. Dutch won’t wait forever.”

Then he turned and followed Charles down the path, their footsteps crunching in the snow. When they were gone, the silence was louder than it had been in days. You and Arthur stood a few paces apart in the yard, breath curling in the cold air.

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said, quietly.

“I know,” you replied.

He looked at you then, really looked. Like he was searching for something in your face—some answer, some permission to let go of the life he’d lived too long.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

“Then don’t,” you said. “But if you stay, stay for real. Don’t keep your heart out there with Dutch. With that life. I can’t raise this baby always wondering if you’re coming back with bullet holes in your side.”

Arthur looked down at the snow between you, nodding slowly.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice like gravel. “Scared that I ain’t gonna be the man you need. Or the man that kid needs.”

You stepped toward him, placing a hand gently on his chest, over the slow, heavy beat of his heart.

“I’d rather have an honest man who’s scared,” you said, “than one who runs off pretending he isn’t.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling shakily.

“I need time,” he whispered.

You nodded. “Take it. Just don’t take too long.”

The wind picked up again. The snow swirled between you.

And for the first time in a long while, Arthur Morgan had to ask himself who he was when he wasn’t the gun for hire, the loyal soldier, the ghost riding behind Dutch Van Der Linde. Because now, for the first time, he had something to stay for. Something to lose.

That night was quiet, still, only the sound of the cracking fire filling the small cabin. Arthur didn’t say much when it was time for bed, instead he curled himself around you, holding your belly in his hand until he fell asleep. You took in the moment, memorizing the feel of his breath on your neck, his scent that you grew accustomed to over the course of the past couple weeks.

But quiet tears streamed down your cheeks and fell onto your pillow, yet you made sure Arthur didn’t hear you cry. Fear, panic, unease. It all grew in your chest simply by imagining that he could possibly be gone, that he’d miss your belly growing, miss the birth, miss the baby’s first… everything. Still, you wiped your tears, breathing deeply and taking in his calming scent. You put your trust in the universe, hoping that it would be kind to you like you were to it.

It’ll all work out, you tried to convince yourself.

You woke before dawn to the sound of boots on floorboards and the distant clinking of saddlebags. The fire was down to glowing embers, the cabin cold. You sat up slowly, watching his silhouette move through the dim light—tall, broad, quiet as a ghost. His back was turned, but you knew the tension in his shoulders like your own breath.

He didn’t expect you to wake.

“Where are you going?” you asked softly as you sat up on the bed you both shared.

Arthur turned. His hat was in his hands, that battered old thing he never seemed to take off unless he had something heavy weighing on him. Like now.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered.

“You didn’t.”

He crossed to your side, sitting besides you so you were eye to eye. His face was rough from sleep, beard untrimmed, but his eyes—those storm-colored eyes—were clear.

“I’m going back,” he said. “Just for a while.”

You knew it was coming. Still, your chest tightened.

“Blackwater?” you asked.

He nodded. “One job. Dutch swears it’s the last. I ain’t so sure I believe him, but… I gotta be there.”

You swallowed thickly. “And then what?”

Arthur reached for your hand. His palm was rough and cold, but his grip was steady.

“Then I come back here,” he said. “For good.”

You stared at him, searching for the cracks. The fear. The doubt. But all you saw was something that scared you even more: hope.

“You really think you can leave that life behind?”

He exhaled through his nose, eyes falling to your joined hands.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I know I want to. I know I’m tired of runnin’. Tired of buryin’ people. Tired of wonderin’ what the hell I’m doin’ it all for.”

He looked back at you, voice low.

“But here… with you. Our baby. It’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away.

“Promise me,” you whispered. “If something goes wrong—you come back home anyway. Don’t disappear. Don’t vanish into that world again.”

Arthur brought your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“I promise.”

You stood on the porch when he rode off.

His horse kicked up frostbitten dirt as it wound down the snow-covered trail. He turned back once—just once—and raised a hand in farewell. You lifted yours in return, heart lodged somewhere in your throat.

And then he was gone.

The cabin felt too quiet without him.

You went about your chores—feeding the mare, boiling water, keeping the fire alive—but the stillness weighed on you. It crept into the corners like smoke, like a draft you couldn’t seal out. You caught yourself reaching for a second mug in the morning, turning toward the door at the sound of hooves that never arrived. And every night, you laid in bed with a hand resting over your stomach, missing the weight of his hands, wondering where he was. Was he safe? Was Dutch pushing him too far again? Would he come back whole? Would he come back at all?

The days blurred.

You’d sit by the fire in the evenings, a book open in your lap, barely read. The wind whistled through the trees, and you’d stare out the window for long stretches, listening for the faint echo of hooves that might never return.

You wrote letters you never sent.

Arthur— The snow melted yesterday. The ground’s soft again. I planted something near the fence line. I think you’d like it here, come spring.

Arthur— I felt the baby move today. Just a flutter. Like a heartbeat under my skin. It scared me. And then it made me smile.

Arthur— Where are you? Come home.

You’d fold them, tuck them into the drawer beside your bed. Your hope lived in that drawer now. Fragile, folded, waiting.

The days grew longer. The snow thinned. The creek behind the cabin started to run again. Still no word. You chopped your own wood. You rode into Strawberry for supplies once, just to hear voices, to remind yourself the world hadn’t gone quiet.

But it had.

At least the part that mattered most.

One night, as spring tried to take hold, you sat on the porch wrapped in Arthur’s coat he left behind for you to keep, watching the stars blink open in the purple dusk. The mountains were still capped in white, but the trees had begun to bud, reaching for something new.

Your hand rested on your belly—rounder now, unmistakable. The child was quiet, like they too were waiting for a father they’d never met.

You didn’t cry.

You’d done enough of that.

You just waited. Quiet and still.

Trusting that somehow, the man who’d kissed your hand and whispered I promise would find his way back through the darkness. That he'd return not just for the promise he made, but because—despite the blood, the gunpowder, and all the things he carried—he wanted to.

The snow had melted into slush and mud. Spring had clawed its way up the mountain at last, leaving a damp chill in its wake and a cabin steeped in silence. The trees were budding, the creek behind the house was alive again with the babble of meltwater, and the wind had lost its bitter edge.

But he didn’t come back.

Arthur Morgan had ridden out into the cold weeks ago, hat low over his brow, a man torn in two. And still, there was no sign of him.

Not until the letter came.

It arrived the way all heartbreak does—quietly. No fanfare, no warning. Just a knock at the door one late afternoon, as the sun spilled gold through the trees.

You opened it to find an unfamiliar man on your porch. Weathered face, neutral eyes. He didn’t say a word—just handed over a folded, sealed envelope and nodded once.

“For you,” he said, voice low, and then turned back to his horse without waiting for a response.

You closed the door behind you, hands trembling as you turned the letter over. Your name scrawled across the front in familiar, looping script. It looked rushed. Smudged, even. Dirt on the corners, a faint thumbprint near the seal.

Arthur’s handwriting.

Your heart plummeted.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, candlelight flickering beside you, and unfolded the single sheet.

The paper crackled. His scent clung to it faintly—gunpowder and pine. Your eyes moved across the words, each one a punch to the chest.

My girl,

I don’t have the right to call you that no more. But I reckon it’s the only way I know how to start this.

I’m alive. For now. The job in Blackwater went bad. Real bad. Dutch had it all wrong—we all did. Pinkertons were waitin’. There was shootin’. Screamin’. We barely got out. Some didn’t. I don’t even know how we made it north, but we did. We’re holed up now, somewhere cold and cruel, and Dutch is already talkin’ about what comes next.

I know I said I’d come back. I meant it. Every word. But if I come back now, they’ll follow me. And they’ll find you. You and the baby. And I can’t risk that. I won’t.

So I’m stayin’ away. For your safety. For the baby's. It ain’t what I want, but it’s the only way I can think to protect you now. I don’t know how long we’ll be runnin’. Maybe forever. Maybe not long at all.

I think about you every day. About the cabin. The way you looked at me that night by the fire, like I could be somethin’ better. I wish I’d held onto that longer.

I’m sorry.

If I find a way to make it right, I’ll come back. But don’t wait for me. Don’t put your life on hold. Raise that baby strong. Tell them I was a fool, but I loved them all the same.

Tell them I loved you.

— Arthur

You sat still long after you finished reading, the letter clenched in your fists, its paper crumpling under the weight of your grief.

Outside, the wind stirred the trees. Somewhere in the woods, a bird sang—lonely and far away.

You stood slowly and crossed to the fire, feeding a fresh log to the flames. The letter stayed in your hand.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To curse his name for leaving, even if it was for all the right reasons. You wanted to rip the letter in half.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you read it again.

And again.

Until the candle burned low and the light outside dimmed to blue and indigo.

That night, you lay in bed curled on your side, one hand resting on your stomach. The baby shifted beneath your touch—a quiet reminder that life, no matter how uncertain, still moved forward.

You thought about Arthur’s face the last time you saw it. The way he kissed your hand, the way his voice trembled when he made that promise.

He meant it. Of that, you had no doubt.

But the world had never been kind to men like Arthur Morgan. Men who tried to claw their way out of darkness for the sake of something gentle. The cruel truth was that he hadn’t broken his promise because he stopped loving you. He’d broken it because he loved you too much to bring his hell to your doorstep.

In the days that followed, you kept moving. You fixed the fence he started. You tended the garden he’d helped dig. You patched the leaking corner of the roof, your belly growing heavier with each passing week. Your back growing painful with the new weight of your baby.

But part of you had gone quiet again.

Not dead. Just waiting. Like the creek under frost.

The letter stayed in your drawer, folded neatly beside the others. You’d reach for it sometimes—never to read, only to hold. Like maybe, if you pressed it close enough to your chest, you could still feel the warmth of his hands. Still feel the echo of his voice, whispering words he may never get to say again.

Spring soon turned to the start of summer, and the green world bloomed around the cabin in quiet defiance of your solitude.

The trees stretched tall and full, the days long and golden. Bees danced through the lavender you’d planted by the front step. A pair of robins nested in the rafters beneath the porch roof, their soft chirps a constant reminder that life pressed on, regardless of heartbreak.

You moved slower now. The weight in your belly grew heavier by the day, until even simple tasks left you breathless. You’d catch your reflection in the small mirror hanging near the wash basin and barely recognize yourself—hair messy, face flushed, hands always cradling your swollen stomach like you were afraid to let go.

You talked to the baby sometimes. When the nights got too quiet. When the wind rattled the shutters and your back ached from tossing in bed.

You told them stories—about their father, about the cabin, about the fireflies that blinked like stars in the meadow after sundown. Sometimes you laughed. Sometimes you cried. Sometimes you just pressed your hand to your belly and whispered,

"I hope you don’t feel as alone as I do."

Her name was May. You met her in Strawberry, during a rare trip to town in early June. A trip you’d put off too long, your supplies running low, your body already straining. She was older—widow-gray hair wrapped in a tight bun, hands like leather, eyes as sharp as flint. She saw you struggling to load a sack of flour into your wagon and took one look at your belly before she tutted under her breath and stepped in.

“You shouldn’t be liftin’ that. Not in your condition.”

You blinked at her, caught off guard. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” she replied curtly, but not unkindly. “Come. I’ll help you finish your errands, and then you’ll come have tea with me. Unless you want to be one of those fools who gives birth in the dirt alone like some wild animal.”

Despite yourself, you chuckled. And then, unexpectedly, you went.

May lived in a small cottage at the edge of Strawberry, vines creeping up the stone walls, a garden teeming with color and smell. Her house was warm and full of clutter—books, candles, knitted blankets folded over chairs. She brewed strong tea. Gave you a bar of handmade soap and a pouch of dried herbs to help with your back. She asked no questions about the father of your child, and you were grateful. You visited her once a week after that.

She showed you how to ease swollen ankles in cold water. How to soothe your cramps with peppermint and lavender oil. How to listen to your body when the baby shifted and dropped. When you told her how far along you were, she nodded and began visiting you at the cabin, walking the half-mile trail from town with a wicker basket in hand and stories about her late husband on her lips.

“It’s not about pain,” she said one afternoon, as you sat on the porch with your feet soaking in a bucket. “It’s about power. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

You stared at her, brow furrowed. “What if I’m not strong enough?”

May looked you dead in the eye.

“You already are.”

The first contraction came in the middle of the night.

You woke with a start, the pain twisting low and hard like a rope being pulled tight inside you. You doubled over, gasping, one hand on the wall to steady yourself. You lit the lantern. Counted the minutes between the waves. Each one stronger than the last. By dawn, you knew it was time.

You sent your loyal hound hurrying down the trail, tail tall, a note pinned to her collar: “It’s happening. Please come.”

May arrived before sun rise, already rolling up her sleeves.

What followed was a blur of breath and sweat and pain that reached down to the bone. Hours passed in a haze of heat and tears. May barked calm orders, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered encouragement like spells.

“You’re almost there. That’s it. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

And you did.

Because there was no other choice.

Because you weren’t just giving birth to a child. You were giving birth to a future Arthur might never see, but that you would carry for him.

The baby arrived just after sunset, as the sky went soft and lilac beyond the trees. A scream—yours—and then a cry that split the air like thunder. May lifted the child, wrapped them in a soft linen blanket, and placed them gently in your arms. You stared down at the tiny face, flushed and squirming, their cries already fading to soft hiccups against your skin.

A boy.

You felt it then—all of it. Joy. Relief. Grief so sharp it stole the breath from your lungs.

You traced your fingers across his damp hair, whispered his name—a name you’d chosen weeks ago, when hope still burned a little brighter.

Arthur Alexander Morgan. You decided he’d go by his middle name.

The tears came fast and hot, slipping silently down your cheeks as you held your boy close. You wanted him there. You wanted his voice, his hands, his steady calm. You wanted him to see the way Alexander clung to your finger. The way his little chest rose and fell. The way he already had his father’s brow. But there was only the firelight, and May’s quiet footsteps, and your own sobs muffled into a blanket as you whispered through the ache in your chest,

"You should’ve been here."

The days came slowly after the birth.

Not gentle—never gentle—but steady, like the tide. Predictable in their routine. Wake. Feed. Rock. Change. Sleep, if you were lucky. Repeat.

Your world shrank to the size of your cabin and the woods beyond it. The creek, now swollen with summer rains, offered a lullaby for quiet nights when Alexander wouldn’t stop crying. You walked him up and down the porch, whispering lullabies against his tiny ear, pressing your lips to his soft scalp, breathing him in like he was the only real thing left in a world that had gone silent.

And in a way, he was.

You still whispered Arthur’s name sometimes. Quietly, like a sin. Like a prayer.

You still kept the letter tucked in your drawer, edges curled and worn soft from being unfolded so many times. You’d memorized it now. Every crooked word. The apology he’d poured into ink. You didn’t cry anymore when you read it. Not like you used to. But you still felt it, like a bruise under your ribs—tender when touched.

Alexander grew fast. Too fast. He had Arthur’s eyes. You saw it more every day. That dusky blue that sometimes looked gray in the shade, piercing and soft all at once. He furrowed his little brow when he was focused, just like his father. Made a low, thoughtful noise when he was frustrated. His hands—God, his hands—were already shaping to be big like Arthur’s, even in miniature. It was like living with a ghost. A sweet, smiling ghost who learned to crawl, then walk, then toddle across the porch to chase butterflies in the tall grass. And every time you looked at him, your heart broke just a little, pieced itself back together, and broke again.

Because Arthur wasn’t here. Because he was supposed to be.

You stopped expecting him around the six-month mark.

Not that you’d given up hope. Not entirely. But something inside you shifted the day you caught yourself leaving the front gate open. A habit you’d built after his letter came. A silent offering. A beacon. You stood at the edge of the trail that morning, Alexander on your hip, the wind stirring the hem of your skirt. The trees swayed overhead, and for a moment—just a single, stupid moment—you thought maybe you’d hear the thrum of hooves. The jingle of tack. The familiar silhouette riding up from the woods.

But there was nothing. Just wind and birdsong. The rustle of a squirrel darting up a trunk. And it hit you, then. He wasn’t coming back. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he’d died somewhere out in the world, a bullet in the dark, no name on his grave. Or maybe he was still alive, running, hiding, surviving—whatever the gang had become now that Blackwater had blown them to pieces. You didn’t know what was worse: thinking he was gone forever, or thinking he was still out there… choosing not to return.

You started closing the gate again.

You packed the letter in a wooden box along with the first blanket Alexander had been swaddled in, a broken feather Arthur had tucked behind your ear once, and the silver ring he’d left on your nightstand before the Blackwater job. You stopped going into Strawberry as often. May still visited, sometimes bringing books or biscuits or idle gossip about some cattle rustler passing through. You smiled, nodded, listened. But your heart stayed quiet. The silence didn’t hurt as much anymore. It just… was.

You sat with him under the birch tree beside the creek when Alexander was 11 months old, planning his first birthday. The grass had grown wild around the large birch tree. He giggled, blue eyes sparkling, without any worries. And you laughed with him. Genuine. Loud. The kind of laugh that felt strange leaving your mouth after so long. You kissed his forehead and held him tight, even as he squirmed to chase a dragonfly. “I wish he could see you,” you whispered, not for the first time. But this time, your voice didn’t shake.

You didn’t stop loving Arthur. You knew you never would. But love—real love—wasn’t always enough to keep someone by your side. Not in the world you came from. Not with the choices you’d both made. So you loved him the only way you could now: by surviving. Like he asked of you. By raising the son he never got to meet. By building a life out of quiet mornings, muddy boots, and lullabies. You’d made peace with your grief. Not because it left, but because you learned to live beside it. Like a scar. Like a shadow. Like the memory of a man named Arthur Morgan, who once rode away with a promise on his lips… and left behind a piece of himself in your arms.

The air smelled like moss and the river, and the breeze carried just enough of the summer heat.

Alexander sat beside you, legs splayed in the grass, a small wooden horse clutched in one chubby fist. He was babbling to himself, brow furrowed in concentration as he dragged the toy through the dirt like it was galloping across plains only he could see. You leaned your head back against the tree, half listening, half dreaming. You hadn’t slept much the night before—he’d woken with a fever that thankfully passed by dawn, but the worry had left its mark. The days were long, and you carried all of them alone.

You didn’t hear the footsteps. Not at first. But you felt them. The weight in the air shifted—heavy, like a storm building behind clear skies. The hairs on your arms stood up. The silence bent around something.

Someone.

And when you opened your eyes—

He was there.

Arthur.

You stared at him for a heartbeat too long, not believing what you saw. Not wanting to. Not daring. He stood at the edge of the clearing, hat in hand, shoulders sloped forward like the world had tried to crush him and nearly succeeded. His coat hung loose on him. His eyes were sunken. His skin—what you could see of it—was pale, waxy, like a candle burned down too low. His chest moved with short, shallow breaths. And even at this distance, you could tell he was struggling to stand upright.

You didn’t remember getting up. You just remember running. Across the grass, heart pounding in your ears. He flinched like he thought you might slap him—or worse. But you didn’t. You wrapped your arms around him, hard and fast, like the earth might steal him away again if you didn’t anchor him here. He tensed. Then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around you. One hand at your back. The other hovering, trembling. You felt the way he shook. The way he pressed his cheek to your hair, his breath catching in his throat like it hurt to hold on.

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice breaking, fighting back tears. “I thought—God, I thought you were dead.”

“I should be,” he rasped, the words barely there. “But I ain’t. Not yet.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

His eyes were the same. Blue as ever. But there was a tiredness behind them now, so much deeper than before. Not just exhaustion—acceptance. Like he’d stopped fighting something he knew he couldn’t outrun.

You lifted a hand to his cheek and he leaned into it before stepping back, coughing once into his sleeve. He looked toward the tree where Alexander sat in the grass, blinking up at the new stranger. Arthur’s eyes softened. And then filled with something you hadn’t seen in them in a very long time.

Wonder.

“Is that…?” His voice faltered.

You nodded. “That’s your son.”

Arthur stared. The wind caught his coat, and he swayed where he stood, but his gaze never left the boy. Alexander tilted his head, curious, then clambered to his feet and toddled toward you with wide, bright eyes. Arthur watched every step like it might shatter him.

“He looks just like you,” you said quietly, voice as unsteady as ever.

Arthur took a shaking breath, his jaw working.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to… be gone so long. But after Blackwater… the Pinkertons… things went bad. I figured stayin’ away was the only way to keep you safe.”

You said nothing at first, letting the wind answer for you. Still, under all the pain and deterioration, he was as beautiful as the first day you saw him.

Then Alexander reached your side, grabbing the hem of your dress and peeking up at Arthur with the hesitant curiosity only small children possess. You picked him up, pressing his head to your shoulder. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists. His chest rose, fell, rose again, like he was fighting the urge to cry. Or collapse.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see him,” he said. “Didn’t think I’d see either of you again. But I—” His voice cracked. “I couldn’t go without meetin’ my boy. I had to see him. See you.”

You stepped toward him, slowly.

“You’re sick,” you said. Not accusing. Just truth. Your heart ached for him.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Dyin’?”

He hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Not long now. I don’t reckon.”

You reached out, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He looked so tired. So hollowed out. Like something had been burned away in him, but the ember still smoldered.

Alexander squirmed in your arms, reaching a hand toward Arthur, fingers outstretched like he knew—like he felt the tether. Arthur looked down at his son’s hand like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. And then he broke. Not loud. Not messy. Just a single tear slipping down his cheek, his voice thick with sorrow and awe.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again. “For not bein’ here. For missin’ everything. You didn’t deserve that. He didn’t either.”

You reached out, pressing Alexander’s tiny hand into Arthur’s. It finally felt like your family was complete, even if it was on borrowed time.

The days that followed blurred into a soft, dreamlike haze — too tender, too precious, and too fragile to fully hold.

Arthur stayed.

He didn’t ask if he could. He didn’t need to. You made up the bed with shaking hands that first night and watched him fall asleep beside the fire, bundled in blankets that barely kept his trembling at bay. His breath came rough, rattling in the quiet hours when you couldn’t sleep, and each cough that shook his body tore something from your chest.

But still, he stayed.

And you cherished him in ways that didn’t need words.

You cooked for him, quietly setting small bowls of stew or porridge beside his chair. You laid Alexander in his arms when the boy reached out with chubby fingers and babbled “Dada” like it had always been part of his world. You didn’t flinch when Arthur staggered, when he had to lean against the table just to catch his breath. You held his hand as he sat out on the porch in the evenings, watching the summer’s light sink behind the trees.

Sometimes, you pretended he wasn’t dying.

Sometimes, you let yourself believe he might stay.

But at night, when he coughed into his pillow and curled inward like he could hide the sickness in his bones, reality clawed its way back in.

You were losing him.

Piece by piece.

And there was nothing you could do.

It was the fourth night when he finally told you how it all happened.

You sat together by the fire. Alexander was asleep in the back room, his little body wrapped in quilts, one thumb in his mouth. The house was quiet. So quiet.

Arthur stirred the mug in his hand, not drinking. His eyes were far away, like he was watching ghosts.

“It was down in Valentine,” he said finally. His voice was rough. Worn thin. “Had to collect some debt from a fella… Thomas, his name was. Died not long after I beat him half to death. And I—” He paused, coughed into his fist, then kept going. “I started feelin’ bad not long after. Sick. Couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t ride long without spittin’ blood. Guess that’s what I get for hurtin’ a family that needed help.”

You turned toward him, heart caught in your throat.

He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“Doctor told me it was tuberculosis down in Saint Denis. Said there weren’t nothin’ to be done. Just… wait it out. Die slow.”

The words hit like cold steel in your gut. You pressed a hand to your mouth, eyes brimming.

“I’m sorry,” he added, and it shattered something in you.

“Stop,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Don’t apologize. Don’t—don’t do that.”

But he did. Again and again, like a man trying to confess every sin before the reaper came knocking.

You broke then, curling into yourself, sobbing in a way you hadn’t since the night he’d left for Blackwater. Arthur reached for you, gently, his arms weak but still familiar. You buried your face in his chest, careful of his breathing, and let yourself fall apart.

“I thought I was ready,” you choked. “To raise Alexander alone. To let go. But now you’re here and I’m not ready. I don’t want to say goodbye. I don’t want it to end like this. I want us to be a family.”

Arthur’s hand moved slowly up your back.

“I want that too,” he said softly. “More than anything. I’ve dreamed about it, y’know? Every night, since I left. You. Him. This little place in the woods. No Dutch. No runnin’. Just peace.” He kissed your hair. “But the truth is, I’m runnin’ outta time. I came back 'cause I couldn’t… I couldn’t leave this world without seein’ you again. Without meetin’ my son. But I can’t give you what you deserve. Not for long.”

You pulled back to look at him, your face wet, your hands trembling as they held his.

“Then give me what you can,” you said. “Just… whatever time we have. Don’t spend it apologizing. Don’t pull away. Just be here. With us.” You nearly begged.

Arthur smiled, tired but warm. “You always were better than me,” he whispered. “Knew how to love when I was too scared to.”

You leaned in and kissed him. Gentle, aching. A kiss filled with every unspoken promise, every memory, every dream you’d built in the quiet spaces of your heart. No fear.

And he kissed you back.

That night, Arthur held Alexander in his lap by the fire, humming a soft song you didn’t recognize. His voice was rough, but steady. The baby stared up at him, transfixed, one hand curled around his father’s finger.

You stood in the doorway and watched them, trying to memorize the moment. The shape of Arthur’s face in the firelight. The curve of his smile. The way his thumb stroked slow circles against Alexander’s tiny hand.

You wanted to bottle it. Bury it. Keep it forever.

But time wasn’t kind.

Time was never kind.

You could feel it before he said the words.

The distance in his eyes, the quiet grief he tried to bury behind soft smiles and trembling hands. The way he lingered outside in the evenings, staring out at the tree line long after the sun had dipped beneath the horizon. He was still here — in body — but you could feel him slipping away, like water through your fingers.

The sixth morning, you found him on the porch before the sky had turned gray with dawn. His coat was drawn tight across his hunched shoulders, his hat low, the air around him heavy with the scent of dew and woodsmoke. He didn’t turn when you stepped out beside him.

“I have to go,” he said. Quiet. Like the trees were listening.

You didn’t answer at first. Just let the words sink in.

“I’ve thought on it,” he went on, his voice rougher than usual, laced with that familiar rasp. “Long and hard. And I don’t wanna leave. God knows I don’t. But I’ve got… responsibilities. Loose ends with the gang. Things I gotta try and make right.”

You folded your arms around yourself, the morning air biting through your thin sleeves. “Arthur, you’re dying.”

“I know.” He nodded, still not looking at you. “And that’s just it. I ain’t got much time left. But if I stay here… if I get you or Alex sick—if I bring the Pinkertons to your door—I won’t be able to live with myself. I’ve seen what they’re capable of. And I ain’t about to risk either of you for my own comfort.”

You felt the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot and unwelcome. You swallowed them down. “You promised you’d come back,” you said.

He turned then.

There was something shattering in his expression. Not just guilt — grief. The kind that lives deep in a man’s bones, where no apology can reach.

“I meant it,” he said. “And I’m here now, ain’t I? But I also promised to keep you safe. And I can’t do that if I’m dyin’ under your roof. Or if I lead them bastards here. They’re still after us. After Dutch. After me.”

You stepped forward, clutching his coat lapels in trembling fists. “So that’s it?” you whispered. “You’re leaving… again?”

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice.”

You looked up at him — at the man who had returned to you broken, thinner than he’d ever been, but still him. The man who had made your son smile. The man you still loved.

“I want more time,” you said, voice shaking. “I know that’s selfish. But I want another morning. Another day. I want him to remember you.”

Arthur cupped your cheek, thumb brushing away the tear that finally fell.

“I know, darlin’,” he murmured. “I want that too.”

That evening, the sky bled orange and violet across the ridgeline. A storm brewed on the far horizon, thunder rumbling low like the growl of some distant animal. You watched it come in from the porch, Arthur sitting beside you, legs stretched out, a blanket across his lap to keep off the creeping cold.

Alexander curled against his father’s side, giggling softly as Arthur lifted his toy horse in slow, deliberate swoops, making tired, wheezing horse noises.

You made supper — rabbit stew and cornbread, just the way he liked it — and Arthur ate what little he could, forcing it down between ragged breaths. He winced every so often, pressing a hand to his ribs, but he smiled when you offered him more tea, when you ran your fingers through his hair.

You tucked Alexander into bed together that night.

Arthur sat on the edge of the mattress, calloused hands brushing back your son’s hair, eyes shining in the candlelight. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the boy’s forehead, lingering there a moment longer than needed.

“Be good for your ma, alright?” he whispered, voice thick.

Alexander didn’t understand. Not fully. But something in your silence must have spoken for you, because he clung to Arthur’s shirt for a long time before sleep finally took him.

Later, when the house had gone still and the rain tapped gently against the windows, you sat together in front of the dying fire, wrapped in silence and the weight of goodbye.

Arthur reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small — a folded scrap of paper, worn at the edges. He handed it to you.

You opened it slowly.

A sketch. You recognized his hand immediately. Charcoal lines, soft and smudged: a small cabin under the trees. A porch. A swing. A family.

You. Him. Alexander.

A dream he’d never stopped carrying.

“I drew that in camp,” he said softly. “Kept it in my pocket. Every time things got bad, I’d pull it out. Remember what I was fightin’ for.”

You pressed the paper to your chest, eyes burning. “Why can’t it be real?”

He looked at you then — really looked. With everything in him.

“It is real,” he whispered. “Just… not forever. But I had it. I had you. I had my boy. Even if it was only for a few days… I’ll carry that with me. Always.”

You climbed into his lap then, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too hard against his ribs. He held you there, breathing you in like you were the last thing on earth that felt right.

And you stayed that way for a long time, wrapped in each other and the quiet hum of a life that could have been.

The goodbye didn’t come easy.

You’d both known it was coming, had been dancing around the edges of it since that morning on the porch. But the hours passed too quickly, slipping through your fingers like river water. No matter how tight you held on, you couldn’t stop the sun from rising again. Couldn’t stop Arthur from saddling his horse in the dark before dawn.

He moved slowly, not from hesitation but from the weight of his own bones. Each breath came labored now, his coughs quieter but deeper, rattling in his chest like something shaking loose. His skin had taken on a paler shade, lips thinner, the hollows under his eyes darker with exhaustion he could no longer outrun.

You stood on the porch barefoot, holding Alexander, wrapped in one of Arthur’s old flannel shirts — the one that still smelled like him, like leather and campfire smoke. The baby shifted against you, blinking sleepily, unaware of what was being taken from him.

Arthur stepped forward, reins in one hand, the other clenched at his side like it hurt to let go.

You didn’t speak at first. Couldn’t.

Instead, you stared at each other — memorizing. Burning every inch of him into your mind: the curve of his nose, the gray in his beard, the sadness behind those blue eyes. He was still the man you loved. Still the man who had held your hand during the hard nights, who had returned against all odds just to meet his son. But you could see the farewell in the way he stood, chest rising slow and uneven, lips pressed into a thin line to keep from trembling.

“I ain’t gonna make it back,” he said softly, breaking the silence.

You felt it then — your throat closing, your breath catching. “Don’t say that.”

Arthur’s jaw tensed. He looked away, toward the line of trees beyond the fence.

“If I could stay,” he said, quieter now, “you know I would. If I didn’t have this… thing rottin’ me from the inside out—if the Pinkertons weren’t huntin’ us—I’d be here. With you. With him.”

You stepped forward, voice cracking. “Then stay anyway. We’ll hide. We’ll disappear. I don’t care where we go. Just… don’t leave, Arthur.”

His breath hitched. You saw it in the way he blinked too fast, looked up at the sky like maybe it could give him strength. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing your cheek. His thumb caught a tear before it slipped down.

“I want that,” he said, his voice so low you barely heard it. “More than anything. But I can’t live with myself if I run and leave John behind. He’s got Abigail. Jack. They still got a chance. And Dutch… he’s lost. I can’t save him, but I can help the ones who still got hope.”

You shook your head, tears falling fast now, shoulders beginning to shake. “What about us? Don’t we get hope?”

He looked at you then, eyes glassy, rimmed red with unshed tears.“You and Alex… you gave me somethin’ to come back for. You gave me peace. For a little while, I felt like I had a home.”

Your knees buckled, and he caught you before you could fall, wrapping you into him.

You sobbed into his chest, clinging so tightly to his coat that your knuckles ached. The tears came in waves — all the fear, the sorrow, the heartbreak you’d buried these last days spilling out like floodwaters. He held you through it, his own shoulders trembling as he buried his face into your hair. You felt the warmth of a few tears against your scalp — hot, silent — and it shattered you all over again.

“I can’t do this alone,” you whispered.

“Yes, you can,” he said. “You already have. And you’ll do it again. For him.”

You looked down at Alexander — now awake, squirming in your arms, reaching toward Arthur with tiny hands.

Arthur reached out and took him, arms shaking but sure. The baby nestled into his chest immediately, resting his head right over Arthur’s heart like he knew exactly where he belonged.

“I’m sorry, little man,” Arthur choked out, holding his son tight. “I’m so damn sorry I couldn’t be more for you.”

Alexander whimpered softly, then began to cry, sensing the shift, the pull of something coming undone. Arthur blinked rapidly, brushing his nose against his boy’s soft hair, cradling him like porcelain.

It took everything you had to take Alexander back, the child clawing at Arthur’s shirt, not understanding why he was being pulled away. He reached for him again and again, and Arthur turned his face away, biting his lip to keep from sobbing.

You stepped forward, once more, and cupped his face.

“If you survive this,” you whispered, “come home to me.”

He nodded. “If I can… I will.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” he said, lips brushing your forehead. You nodded through your tears, though your heart screamed otherwise.

Then he pulled you in, one last time, and kissed you like he’d never kissed you before — full of everything he hadn’t said, everything he couldn’t. It was desperate and slow and full of pain, the kind of kiss you never forget. One you feel for the rest of your life.

When he pulled away, he left part of himself with you.

Arthur mounted his horse slowly, glancing back once, twice.

And then he rode off into the trees, the early morning mist swallowing him whole.

And you stood there in the doorway, clutching your crying child to your chest, the last of your heart galloping into the forest.

Time passed in quiet, uneven measures.

Morning became your anchor. The rhythm of the stove crackling to life, of Alexander’s little footsteps echoing through the cabin like music. You marked the days by his growth. The first time he said dog, then cat, then horse. The first day he ran off at full speed down the beaten path-hair blowing through his curls, you in a frenzy to catch the wild boy. Each moment carved into your memory like tally marks on the wall. But Arthur didn’t return.

Every sunrise without the sound of hooves on the path chipped away at your hope, just a little more. You tried to tell yourself he was still out there. Still breathing. Still fighting. That he had kept his promise, and one day you’d see his shadow cast long across the porch again.

But deep down — in the aching, wordless place inside your chest — you knew.

He was gone.

You mourned him slowly, the way women do when they have no grave to stand over. No final words. No body to bury. Just an old flannel shirt hanging on the back of a chair, worn edges and all. Just a drawing of a cabin and a dream tucked safely in your nightstand drawer. Just the echo of his voice in the way your son laughed.

And even still… you waited.

Autumn came gently.

The trees flamed in shades of gold and rust, their leaves spiraling down from the canopy like bits of sun. You harvested what you could from the small garden out back, chopped firewood until your hands blistered, and kept the cabin warm with extra quilts as the days grew shorter.

Alexander was a well over a year old now — wide-eyed and wild-haired, with Arthur’s smile stamped plainly across his little face, proud as can be. He liked to toddle over to the fence line and stare out into the woods, as if he was waiting for something.

Like he remembered.

Like he knew.

It was late afternoon when it happened. The sky was pale and streaked with thinning clouds, the scent of damp earth and dying leaves thick in the air.

You were outside, hanging a blanket on the line, Alexander crawling at your feet. The wind stirred just enough to carry the soft crunch of hooves from down the path.

Your head snapped up.

Your breath caught in your chest.

There — beyond the trees — a figure on horseback. Alone. Moving slow, as if weary from long travel.

You stood still, squinting, heart hammering in your ribs. You knew Arthur’s gait on a horse. The curve of his shoulders. The way he leaned forward like he was always chasing something.

This man… wasn’t him.

He rode different. Straighter. Leaner. And as he got closer, you saw a wide-brimmed hat and the worn duster of a younger man. His horse was familiar, though — dark, with a white blaze down the nose.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

John.

He stopped a few feet from the porch, tipping his hat, his face somber beneath the shadow of the brim.

“Miss,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t.

He dismounted slowly, walking forward with that signature limp, eyes flicking to Alexander — who had gone still in the grass, staring up at the stranger like he understood too much for his age.

“Thought I’d check in,” John said quietly. “Been a long time.”

You swallowed. “You came alone.”

He nodded. “Ain’t nobody left to come with.

The world went quiet. The wind shifted. Your throat tightened. You looked at him, there was something heavy in his gaze. Something final.

And you knew.

He didn’t have to say it. He didn’t want to say it. But you saw the truth in the sorrow that pooled in his eyes.

Arthur was gone.

You don’t remember falling, but you must have, because your knees hit the earth and the cold bled up through your skin like water through cloth. You doubled forward, hands gripping your skirt, trying to pull breath into lungs that didn’t want to work.

John dropped beside you, catching your arm with rough fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice cracking in a way you hadn’t expected.

You shook your head, tears spilling freely now. You didn’t care. You couldn’t. The pain came in waves — thick and violent, laced with every night you’d spent staring out the window, hoping to see him coming back to you.

“He—he said he’d come home,” you managed to whisper, choking on the words. “He promised.”

John’s jaw tightened. “He wanted to. He fought for that. ‘Til the end.”

You turned your face into your hands, trying to muffle the sob that tore free from your chest.

John sat with you. He didn’t try to tell you it would be alright. He didn’t offer hollow comforts. He just sat there, his hand on your shoulder, the only witness to the breaking of a heart that had been holding out far too long.

Alexander wobbled forward, confused by your crying, small hands reaching for you. You pulled him into your lap and buried your face in his curls, breathing him in.

“He looks like him,” John said after a moment. “Spittin’ image.”

You nodded against your son’s soft hair. “He deserved to meet him like this. Healthy. Whole.” You managed.

“I think he was,” John murmured. “For a while. With you. You gave him peace… more than most of us ever got.”

You sat there until the sun slipped lower, until the light turned gold behind the trees and the wind grew colder.

John stayed beside you.

And though it wasn’t the man you’d prayed to see again… he brought the weight of Arthur’s love in his silence. A shared grief that lived between them, now passed on to you. A reminder that Arthur Morgan had lived. And that he had come back — even if it was only once.

John stood there for a long moment, glancing between you and the boy cradled against your chest. His face was solemn, weathered from too much death, too much running, too many goodbyes. Then, slowly, he turned his attention to the small child. Alexander looked up from your arms, curious but cautious. He was too young to know the full meaning of grief, but he felt the tension, the silence, the way your body trembled when you held him.

John crouched low in the grass in front of him. “Hey, little man,” he said gently, voice cracking just slightly. “You don’t know me, but… I’m your uncle John. I used to ride with your pa. We were family, him and me.”

He reached into his satchel and pulled something out — something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t prepared to see.

Arthur’s hat.

Worn, dusty, wide-brimmed and familiar. The sight of it knocked the air out of your lungs. You bit down on a sob, knuckles white where you clutched the hem of Alexander’s shirt.

John held it out and gently placed it over the boy’s head. It was far too big — it fell over his eyes and nearly swallowed his whole head — but Alexander laughed, a pure little sound, and tugged at the brim with both hands.

John smiled, though there was something deeply mournful behind his eyes. “That was your pa’s,” he said. “He wore it every damn day. Through rain, snow, blood, and fire. Reckon it’s yours now. You keep it safe, alright?”

Alexander blinked up at him, then babbled something unintelligible — some mix of sound and joy — and carefully walked toward John with his arms open.

You covered your mouth with your hand and turned away, the grief swelling in your chest like a storm surge. It hurt — God, it hurt — to see something of Arthur in your son that wasn’t just a smile or a freckle. It was a piece of him, worn and passed on, a legacy held in cotton and sweat and old leather.

You didn’t realize you were crying again until the taste of salt hit your lips.

Eventually, you stood.

“Come inside,” you said, your voice hoarse from tears. “Please.”

John nodded and helped you gather Alexander. The hat stayed perched clumsily on the boy’s head as the three of you stepped into the warm cabin, where the hearth still glowed from the morning’s fire.

You sat down in the chair by the fire, holding Alexander against your chest. He was growing heavy now, his head drooping against your shoulder as sleep pulled at him.

John stood for a moment, glancing around the cabin. His gaze lingered on the little details: the hand-carved crib, the boots tucked by the door, the rifle resting above the mantle. Then, with careful hands, he pulled something from his satchel and stepped forward.

“I brought you this,” he said. “It’s his. Was his. He always kept it close.”

He handed you Arthur’s journal.

The leather was worn smooth from years of travel. You recognized it — you’d seen him scribble in it late at night, hunched over by firelight, mumbling half-formed thoughts and drawing pictures of birds and bison and flowers and distant mountains. The very last thing he ever owned that was truly his.

Your hands trembled as you took it.

John cleared his throat. “Last few pages… they were about you. And the kid. Didn’t mean to look but…”

You opened it slowly, carefully, afraid the moment might shatter if you breathed too loud.

There — in Arthur’s unmistakable, scratchy handwriting — were the final entries.

You traced his words with your fingers.

“I saw her again today. She had the boy in her arms, sittin’ under a tree. Looked like sunlight caught in her hair. Never seen anything so beautiful. I wanted to run to her, but I knew I shouldn’t… not right away. I’m sick. Didn’t want to bring danger to their door. But I needed to see ‘em. Needed to know they were alright.

Alexander’s got my eyes and he smiles like me — poor kid. He’s got a wild spirit. I can tell, even now. He’ll be strong. I hope he remembers me kindly, even if I ain’t there to teach him right from wrong.”

The tears came harder now, falling in thick, silent rivers. You turned the page and found the last entry.

“I ain’t got much time. Breathin’s hard. Nights are worse. But I’m glad I came back home. Glad I saw her. If there’s any justice in this world, maybe she’ll find peace. Maybe she’ll tell the boy about me — maybe not who I was, but who I tried to be in the end. It’s all I want.”

“I love her. More than I ever said. I hope she loved me too.”

That broke you.

You doubled forward, journal pressed against your chest like you could absorb the words, like they could bring him back if you held them tightly enough.

John stood quietly, letting you fall apart. When you looked up, his eyes were wet too — not sobbing, but heavy. Heavy with shared loss.

“He was a good man,” you whispered. “Flawed, stubborn… but good.”

John nodded. “The best of us, in the end.”

Eventually, the sun began to dip behind the hills, painting the walls of the cabin in gold.

John walked toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame.

“I’ll check in from time to time,” he said. “Make sure you’re both alright. Arthur… he asked me to. Said if he didn’t make it, I was to look after you. Best I can.”

You nodded slowly, your voice caught in your throat.

“Thank you, John.”

He hesitated a moment longer, then tipped his hat and stepped outside, the door closing quietly behind him.

You stood in the middle of the room, Alexander asleep on your shoulder, Arthur’s journal pressed to your heart, the fire crackling low beside you.

The cabin was warm. Safe. But it felt emptier now than it ever had before.

You walked to the window and watched as John mounted his horse and disappeared down the path, swallowed up by the trees and the growing dusk.

And then, you were alone again.

You stared at the empty chair across from you. The one where Arthur had sat just months ago, brushing his fingers through your hair, telling you he’d do better. That he’d try.

You pressed your lips to Alexander’s head and whispered, “He did, baby. He really did.”

And though your heart was broken — shattered in places you didn’t know existed — you knew you would carry him. In memory. In love. In your son’s every breath.

It was late spring when you finally made the journey. The snow had melted from the hills, leaving behind rolling green meadows speckled with wildflowers and the early buzz of bees. The sun hung warm and low in the sky, stretching gold across the horizon as you followed the narrow trail winding through the trees, your son nestled on your hip.

Alexander had grown since John’s visit. His legs were longer, his eyes sharper, his laughter louder. Every day he looked more like Arthur. Every crooked smile, every tilt of his head, every stubborn little stomp of his feet when he didn’t get his way — it was all him.

You couldn’t stop seeing him in the boy. And it hurt.

You reached the ridge by mid-afternoon. The trail had thinned out, roots knotted beneath your boots and ferns brushing your skirt. You remembered the spot — John had marked it on a crumpled piece of paper, his handwriting rough and direct: Look for the overlook above the valley. Near the old pine, the one with the lightning scar.

You saw it before you even stepped clear of the trees.

The grave.

Modest. Quiet. Just as he would’ve wanted.

There was a cross, its planks hand-written and uneven, but with his name etched into it clear and clean: Arthur Morgan.

You stood still for a long while, heart hammering as though he might rise up from beneath the earth just to greet you.

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

You let out a shaking breath and stepped forward, the weight of your son grounding you.

Alexander, curious, reached toward the cross. His fingers brushed the top of it gently, almost reverently, as if some part of him knew.

“This is your pa’,” you whispered to him. “He was a good man. The best man I ever knew.”

The wind stirred through the trees above, soft and steady. You lowered yourself to the ground, settling on your knees beside the grave, and let Alexander sit in your lap. He leaned his head against your chest, blinking slowly, the brim of his too-big hat — Arthur’s hat — dipping low over his brow.

You reached out and touched the stones that sat underneath the cross.

“I miss you,” you said softly, throat closing around the words. “Every single day.”

Your eyes stung, but you kept going.

“You should see him, Arthur. Our son. He’s smart. Brave. A little reckless, like you. He makes me laugh. Drives me crazy sometimes, too. But he’s… he’s everything.”

You drew in a trembling breath.

“He has your eyes. Your smile. Your soul. I see you in him more and more with each passing day. And God, Arthur… it hurts. It hurts so bad not having you here. I wanted you to be part of this. To see him grow up. To hold him, to teach him how to ride and track and… just be his father.”

The words cracked in your throat.

You reached into your satchel and pulled out a bundle of wildflowers — lupine and yarrow and tiny white daisies Alexander had helped you pick along the trail. With gentle fingers, you laid them on the grave, brushing away a few stray leaves that had gathered near the stones.

“I still love you,” you whispered. “I never stopped. Even when I told myself I should let go. Even when I knew you weren’t coming back… I still held on to you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the breeze move through your hair.

“I hope you found peace. I hope wherever you are, you're free of pain. I hope you know how hard you tried… and that you didn’t fail. Not with me. Not with Alexander. You gave us something worth carrying. And I’m thankful for the time we had, even if it wasn’t enough.”

Alexander stirred, glancing up at you, then at the stones. He pressed his tiny hand against them, and you couldn’t help but sob softly at the gesture.

“I love you,” you whispered again, your voice barely audible now. “Always.”

You stayed a while longer, sitting in the soft grass beneath the trees. The sun slipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance. And for a fleeting moment, you imagined he was there — just over your shoulder, watching the two of you with that quiet half-smile he wore when he thought no one was looking.

Eventually, you stood.

You adjusted Alexander in your arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and gave the grave one last glance.

One last goodbye.

And then you turned away and walked back toward the trail, your son holding tight to your shirt, the brim of Arthur’s hat bobbing slightly as you disappeared into the golden light of late spring.

Arthur Morgan was gone. But what he left behind — the love, the strength, the memory — lived on.

In you. In Alexander. In every step you took forward.

And the wind carried your final words back to the ridge:

"You’ll always be with us. No matter how far."

362 notes · View notes

ramp-it-up · 14 days ago

Text

The Trouble With Love Is

Trouble in Mind

Summary: Las Vegas, 1952. James Buchanan Barnes is the newest, and youngest, Capo in town. But amid the glitz and shadows of the Strip, he never expects to find you, the beautiful singer who vanished from his life six years ago without a trace. After a night of passion you hurry home and Bucky follows. He finds out your secret. And he's not going to let you keep it to yourself.

Pairing: Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Lounge Singer!Reader

A/N: This is angsty, but not totally dark. Big thanks to @princessphilly and @ljstraightnochaser for giving inspo, tossing ideas, and talking history with me. This story is by no means over. Let me know what you think!

Please reblog, comment, and like!

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Angst. Steve and Sam (they are warnings!), Bucky is very angry. Possessive, domineering Bucky, heart break, betrayal, (non-consentual) absentee father, lies, deception, passion, angry/makeup (?) sex, raw p in v, breeding kink, creampie, cum kink.

I do not have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

The moment you sensed that Bucky knew about you and Jamie, you knew you needed to leave.

You didn’t send Jamie to school that morning. Instead, you packed light, a single suitcase with only the essentials.

On the way to the station, you withdrew the money you’d been stashing away for years. Just enough to disappear. One-way tickets north, straight to Canada.

You didn’t call the club. That would tip Bucky off.

Beyond that, you didn’t let yourself think about what came next.

Not about the ache in your chest or the weight of the past.

Or the night you spent with Bucky.

You just had to keep moving.

Jamie clutched your hand, his small fingers squeezing tight as you bent down to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Where are we going, Mama?”

“On an adventure, baby.”

You tried to smile, but Jamie wasn’t buying it. His brows knit together in that way that made him look so much like his father.

“You in trouble, Mama?”

Your breath caught.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because it feels like we’re running away.”

—--

The station was quiet in the early morning, thick with the scent of coal and iron. You kept Jamie close, your heart hammering as you stole glances over your shoulder.

No sign of him. Maybe you got lucky.

Maybe Bucky didn’t know.

Or maybe… he’d decided to let you go.

Then you heard it.

Boots on the platform.

Jamie’s fingers curled tighter around yours, his small body pressing close. He felt it too, the shift in the air.

You turned.

Bucky stood at the edge of the platform, hands in his pockets, watching you like he’d been expecting this. Like he knew you’d run. The morning light caught the sharp lines of his face, the set of his jaw, and the fury barely restrained in those icy blue eyes.

“You really think you could leave me again?”

His voice was calm, and that made it worse.

You swallowed hard.

“Bucky–”

He held up a hand.

“Don’t.”

Jamie peeked up at him, curiosity alight in his wide eyes. He didn’t know who this man was, didn’t understand why your fingers trembled in his.

Bucky’s gaze flickered to the boy, and something cracked in his expression. Not anger. Something else. Something raw.

You took a step back, gripping Jamie’s hand tighter.

“Let us go, Bucky.”

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Have you lost your mind?”

The train whistle blew, steam hissing into the air. It was preparing to leave.

But Bucky didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, staring at the boy like he was seeing a ghost. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears as the conductor called for final boarding.

One thought filled your mind.

You could still run.

But Jamie was looking up at Bucky now, wide-eyed, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the man’s composed facade.

“What’s your name, kid?” Bucky asked as if he didn’t know.

Jamie hesitated, glancing at you before answering.

“James.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, like he’d been punched in the gut. His fingers twitched at his sides.

“James, huh?”

Jamie nodded. “Mama calls me Jamie, though.”

Bucky swayed slightly on his feet, his chest rising and falling a little too fast. He didn’t take his eyes off the child.

Jamie squared his small shoulders.

“I’m five! I’m a big boy,” he declared. “And when I get older, I wanna be called Jay.”

Bucky let out a short laugh, shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His son. His son stood before him, defiant, bright-eyed, and looking so much like him it made his heart ache.

“Jay, huh?”

He crouched down to Jamie’s level, his voice softening. But his eyes flicked up to you, pinning you in place.

“You know, I had a name picked out for my son once.”

Your stomach twisted.

Jamie tilted his head. “What was it?”

Bucky didn’t look away from you. “James.”

Jamie blinked. “But that’s my name!”

Bucky’s jaw ticked, and then he smiled. He reached out, ruffling Jamie’s dark curls.

“Yeah, kid,” he murmured, voice thick. “Yeah, it is. It’s also my name.”

Jamie grinned, pleased with the connection. But you saw it, the way emotion flickered in Bucky’s eyes, the weight of realization settling deep in his chest. Then he looked back at you. And you knew what came next.

“Where’s your father?” Bucky asked, his voice deceptively calm.

Your throat tightened. You had never wanted to lie to Jamie. You just wanted to protect him.

Jamie shrugged. “Mama says he was in the war.”

You saw the moment it hit Bucky. His jaw locked, his shoulders tensed, and his breath came a little too fast.

“In the war?” he echoed, voice low as he pinned you with an icy glare.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Bucky laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“That’s all you told him?”

“It’s all he needed to know.”

The train whistle blew again. Final call.

Bucky took a step forward. Then another.

“You were gonna take him and disappear again,” he said, voice quiet, lethal. “You really thought I’d let you?”

Your hands trembled. Jamie looked between you both, sensing the tension, feeling the shift in the air.

Bucky reached for Jamie’s other hand.

“C’mon,” he said, voice unreadable. “We’re going home.”

Bucky wasn’t asking.

He was telling.

—--

The elevator ride to Bucky’s penthouse was silent, save for Jamie’s soft humming. It was an old church tune, something Miss Thea played on the radio in the mornings.

Bucky recognized it. But he didn’t say so.

The apartment was just as you remembered, polished floors, sleek furniture, wide windows overlooking the Vegas skyline. But it wasn’t the same. Now, there was an endless chasm between you.

Jamie didn’t seem to notice. He looked around, eyes wide.

“This is a big place,” he observed. “Where’s your room?”

Bucky smirked.

“You asking to sleep in my bed already?”

Jamie giggled. You didn’t.

Bucky led him deeper inside, his rage buried but not gone. With Jamie, he was open, easy, already slipping into the role of a father. But when he looked at you?

Ice.

You watched them, Bucky’s effortless warmth toward Jamie only making the distance between you more unbearable. He had stepped into this role without hesitation, while your world was still spinning.

Jamie fell asleep almost instantly, curled up on the plush couch, fingers tucked under his cheek. You sat beside him, smoothing his curls, your chest tightening with every peaceful breath he took.

Bucky stood across from you, watching.

“You’re staying,” he finally said, voice steady.

Your lips parted, a protest forming, but he cut you off before you could start.

“You’re staying,” he repeated, softer now. “Both of you.”

You swallowed hard.

“You can’t just—”

“I can.” He stepped closer, gaze searching yours. “And I will.”

“Bucky…”

He crouched before you, eyes locking onto yours with a deadly intensity. In that moment, you understood how he commanded criminals and thieves.

“You should’ve told me.”

You exhaled shakily.

“I know.”

His jaw tightened.

“We’ll talk about it. Later.”

He glanced at Jamie, then back to you.

“But for now? You’re mine. Both of you.”

Your chest ached, but you didn’t argue. Because despite everything, you weren’t sure you ever stopped being his.

“You can take the guest room,” he said, nodding toward a door across the hall from his.

“Bucky—”

“What I said is final, Lark.”

Then, without another word, he lifted Jamie into his arms. The boy stirred only slightly, blinking sleepily at Bucky before resting his head against his shoulder. He had no idea what storm raged between the adults in the room.

Bucky laid him down gently, gaze lingering on him before he stepped back and shut the door. When he turned back to you, the space between you widened.

“Is Jamie just supposed to stay here like some prince in a tower? What school is he supposed to go to, Bucky? The Golden Nugget Casino?”

Bucky frowned, clearly not having thought that far ahead.

You scoffed.

“You really are naïve.”

His jaw ticked. As he walked away from you, not trusting himself.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that for all the things you think you know about this world, you still don’t get this.”

You gestured between you.

“Jamie can’t just walk into any school in this city, Bucky. He can’t sit next to just any kid.”

Bucky held your gaze, unreadable. He had seen war, lived through blood and fire, but this was something he’d never truly had to face. Not like you had.

After a beat, he turned to the bar and poured himself a drink, downing it in one gulp.

“Steve and Sam can take him to school every day.”

Then, as if making a decision in real-time, he looked at you with a calculating edge.

“You can leave if you want. Fine. But Jamie is staying here.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“You know I’m not leaving my child with a stranger.”

Bucky’s rage simmered just below the surface, but his voice remained eerily calm.

“I’m his father. You haven’t confirmed it, but you haven’t denied it either.”

Then, after a beat, “And you left me.”

Your blood boiled.

“You, James Buchanan Barnes, are not my child. You are a grown-ass man. And you don’t understand half of what you think you do. I’m not leaving Jamie, but I have to work. And so do you.”

Bucky didn’t like how much you knew about his vulnerabilities.

“Don’t worry about me. You don’t have to work. But you can if you want to. I’m hiring Miss Thea to watch him.”

That made you pause.

“Miss Thea?”

“She’s the only one you trust, right?”

His voice was smoother now, more measured.

“She’ll stay here with him while you’re at work.”

You swallowed hard, mind racing. You didn’t like this, didn’t like how easily he had taken control. But the truth was, Miss Thea was the only person you’d ever trusted with Jamie.

Bucky watched you, waiting for you to push back.

“I need my…”

“Sam and Steve are getting your things,” he cut in smoothly, barely looking up as he rolled his cuffs.

His tone left no room for argument. And staring at his forearms wasn’t helping your resistance. You were extremely frustrated.

“You really think you can just make decisions for me now?”

He finally met your gaze.

“If you’re staying, then that’s all there is to it.”

Before you could fire back, he turned and walked out of the apartment, shutting the door behind him.

Bucky didn’t trust you.

Not anymore. And you weren’t sure he ever would.

—--

The weight of Bucky’s anger pressed down on the casino like a storm cloud.

He didn’t shout; he didn’t have to. His silence was enough to set everyone on edge. Dealers fumbled cards, pit bosses avoided his gaze, and even the drunk high-rollers seemed to sense something was off.

He spent the night pacing the floor or sitting in his office, staring at his whiskey without drinking it. His men knew better than to ask, but Steve, as always, pushed.

“You gonna say anything?” Steve asked, arms crossed.

Bucky toyed with his glass. “What’s there to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe something about the fact that you just found out you have a five-year-old son?”

Bucky’s grip tightened. He hadn’t let himself process it, hadn’t allowed the truth to sink in. Instead, he latched onto his anger.

“You knew,” he muttered.

Steve held his gaze.

“I suspected. By the way she ran this morning.”

Bucky slammed the glass down.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“If I had, what would you have done? Kicked down her door? Scared the hell out of her?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Because that was exactly what he would’ve done.

Steve sighed.

“Jamie’s your son, Buck. And he doesn’t know anything about you..”

The words hit harder than Bucky wanted to admit. Jamie had stood in front of him this morning, wide-eyed and fearless, saying his name was James. It clawed at Bucky’s ribs, made it harder to breathe.

Sam’s voice cut in.

“Boss? You gonna sit there looking murderous all night, or you gonna do something about it?”

Bucky clenched his jaw. He wanted to storm upstairs, demand answers, demand why.

But Jamie was up there.

And Bucky couldn’t waste any more time.

—-

By the time he stepped back into the penthouse, the city lights glowed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows over the polished floors.

It was quiet.

Then, he heard soft laughter from the guest room.

His feet moved before he realized, drawn toward the sound. The door was cracked open just enough for him to see inside.

You were sitting on the bed, with Jamie curled up beside you, his little face tucked against your side, having awakened in a strange bed and fighting sleep.

You pressed a soft kiss to Jamie’s forehead, smoothing his hair back from his face. He mumbled something sleepily in response, and you hummed a gentle tune, your voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky stood there, frozen.

Jamie. His son.

And you.

The woman he never stopped wanting, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much anger clouded his judgment.

You swayed gently as you sang, your voice low and soothing. The kind of voice that could lull even the most restless soul to sleep. It stirred something painful and terrifying deep in Bucky’s chest.

Because you weren’t just beautiful. You never had been just beautiful.

You were warmth.

You were safety.

You were everything he never thought he could have.

His heart twisted as he thought of everything he’d missed, his son’s first steps, his first words, every scraped knee, every bedtime story.

And for a moment, just a moment, the anger flared. But then, you looked up.

You saw him through the crack in the door, and in that instant, time froze.

Neither of you moved.

Bucky stood there, half-hidden in the shadows, his blue eyes locked onto yours, unreadable and burning at the same time.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside of this moment, this hallway, this collision between past and present, it didn’t exist.

You were the first to bridge the gap.

Carefully, quietly, you pulled the blanket up over Jamie, making sure he was tucked in. Then, you slipped out of bed, padding softly toward the door.

You stepped into the hall, closing the door behind you with careful hands, sealing Jamie away from whatever storm was about to break.

You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to steady yourself, trying to guard yourself against the man who had always been your weakness.

“Bucky?” you whispered, your voice strained.

He stared at you.

Your eyes, tired, red-rimmed, still held so much life. They carried everything he couldn’t put into words.

Bucky stepped closer, unable to stop himself. His gaze flickered over your face, lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second before his eyes met yours again.

“You were gonna take him from me.”

A sharp pang of guilt cut through your chest, but you swallowed it down.

You wouldn’t break. You couldn’t.

And you didn’t deny it.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching like he didn’t trust himself not to touch you. His presence alone was overwhelming, but it wasn’t fear that made your pulse race.

It was him.

It had always been him.

“You don’t understand what it was like, what it is like,” you whispered, your voice trembling but strong.

“I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think you would want us, and if you did, it would have been so hard. I didn’t want to weigh you down...”

“I was looking,” Bucky whispered fiercely. “I was looking for you. I would’ve fought for you. You didn’t believe in me, Lark.”

You breathed a quiet sob as your tears started to roll.

“I'm so sorry, Bucky.”

Your apology hit him like a ton of bricks, but he didn’t know how to express it.

He didn’t know what to say to you.

But his body did the talking. He reached for your hand.

The moment his fingers curled around yours, the air in the room shifted.

You should have pulled away. Should have taken another step back, put some space between you before this turned into something neither of you were ready for at this moment with so much unresolved.

But you didn’t.

And Bucky sure as hell didn’t either.

His grip tightened, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, and then, like gravity, like inevitability, you were in his space, or he was in yours.

You weren’t sure who moved first.

Your back hit the counter, his hands caging you in, but he wasn’t touching you yet. He was just there, close enough that his body heat wrapped around you, close enough that you could see to the bottom of his stormy blue eyes.

Anger. Frustration. Need.

And love.

“You were gonna rob me again. No one robs me and gets away with it.”

“I’m sorry Bucky,” you were pleading for forgiveness.

He moved even closer, his lips so close to yours, every nerve ending on your body was on fire.

“Stop apologizing. You can’t make up for it.”

It was too much, the way he was looking at you, the way he was standing so damn close but still holding back.

You weren’t sure who snapped first.

Maybe it was you, gripping his shirt and yanking him forward. Maybe it was him, crushing his lips to yours like he was trying to stop you from speaking forever.

It didn’t matter.

Because suddenly, you were kissing him, or he was kissing you.

It was a collision of years of longing and anger and heartbreak crashing together all at once. This was different from the night before, which was a dream fulfilled.

This was two people caught up in a messy reality but who still wanted each other anyway.

Bucky’s hands found your waist, then down to your thighs, up your back to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair as he tilted your head back, exposing your throat to his mouth.

You gasped, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, swallowing your breath like he needed it more than air.

You thought about stopping. You needed to talk. To work this out.

But the moment his lips dragged down your jaw, his breath hot against your skin, all rational thought disappeared.

“I hate you,” he whispered, but his fingers were digging into your ass, pulling you closer.

You sighed against his lips.

“No, you don’t.”

Bucky huffed, his lips ghosting over yours.

“Damn you,” he muttered. Because you were right.

Despite the fact that he wanted to hold onto the anger, and as much as he wanted to punish you for everything, he wanted this more.

He always had.

The trouble with love was, it was stronger than his pride.

Bucky lifted you onto the counter, slotting himself between your legs, pressing closer, deeper, until there was no space left between you.

“I should stop,” he murmured against your lips, like he was trying to convince himself.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a plea more than anything else.

His lips brushed your neck.

“I won’t.”

He looked up at you, and there was a pause, just a heartbeat’s worth of hesitation, before his lips crashed into yours again.

And this time, there was no restraint.

You watched as Bucky dropped to his knees in front of you, pushing your skirt up around your hips.

He nuzzled your cunt through your wet underwear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine as his hands skimmed up your thighs, rough fingertips dragging over sensitive skin.

You bit your lip. One hand clasped your hip hard when noises escaped you. He looked up at you, his face a study in perfection. He might have been down on his knees, but he was the conqueror.

You couldn’t tell if the look he was giving you was fire, or desire.

He leaned forward and sniffed at the apex of you again.

“You smell so… fuck,” he cursed gruffly and reached down to rub his stiff and aching cock.

Instead of pulling off your underwear, Bucky hooked a thick finger under the edge of it, tugging it aside. The contact of the cool air on your burning flesh sent more shivers through your body, and you moaned quietly again.

Bucky held you in a lethal glare, and without ever breaking eye contact, he leaned into you and brushed his lips through your damp folds.

The first slow stroke of his tongue had your fingers tangling in his hair, your back arching involuntarily. He groaned at the way you moved, the way your body responded to him without hesitation, without restraint.

“Taste so fucking goooddd,” Bucky moaned into your skin as he looked up at you, a total wreck, entirely owned and possessed by him.

This is how he would keep you with him forever.

His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, anchoring you to him. He worked you open with his mouth, his tongue sweeping through your folds, teasing, tasting, consuming.

Your breath came in uneven gasps, the tension coiling tighter, spiraling higher.

“Bucky…” His name left your lips in a whisper, but he didn’t let you finish.

His grip shifted, dragging you closer as he speared his tongue deeper, drinking in every broken moan, every desperate sound. His stubble scraped against the softness of your inner thighs, a delicious contrast to the warmth of his mouth.

At some point, both of your trembling legs ended up over Bucky’s broad shoulders and he braced you firmly, his large hands filled with your ass. He was going to town on you like he was having his last and best meal ever.

You shook and trembled, trying to hold in your moans as you ground yourself onto his mouth.

Neither of you could stop.

And when he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, just enough, everything shattered.

You came apart against him, trembling, gasping, his name a breathless chant on your lips. He didn’t stop, didn’t pull away, coaxing you through every aftershock, dragging out the pleasure until you were shaking beneath his touch.

Once you were steady on your feet again, he swept you up in his arms, carrying you to his bedroom and placing you on the bed. He was deceptively gentle, lips still damp with you, his expression unreadable as he leaned over you, tracing his fingers over your thigh.

“So soft,” he murmured, his thumb stroking over your skin.

“So fucking beautiful. So fucking mine.”

You watched as he straightened and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off his broad shoulders in one fluid motion. The room was dim, the city lights spilling through the windows, casting shadows across the hard planes of his torso.

He was beautiful.

Slowly, he unbuckled his belt, the soft clink of metal making you rub your thighs together in want. He let it drop to the floor before unbuttoning his pants, pushing them down along with his boxers.

Your gaze dropped to his magnificent cock and the drops of precum oozing out, and heat flooded through you all over again. You had the curious urge to taste it.

Bucky crawled over you, bracing himself on his forearms so that his weight barely pressed into you, but you could feel all of him, the heat of his skin, and his hard erection nestled against your thigh.

He traced his fingers along your jaw, tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. His face was so cold, but his body was so hot against yours.

“You are mine.” he told you.

You swallowed, and heart pounding you reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing over the stubble on his cheek.

“I’m yours.”

Something flickered in his eyes. But before you could dwell on it, he kissed you, slow and deep, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, stealing the breath from your lungs.

His hands roamed, teasing at the waistband of your underwear before finally sliding them down your legs. You gasped when he pressed against you, his cock thick and heavy against your entrance. His forehead rested against yours, his breath uneven.

“I’m never going to let you go again,” Bucky murmured. “You know that, right? You. Are. Mine.”

You nodded. It was inevitable.

And then, he pushed inside you in one sharp, punishing stroke.

This is what you were due.

Your warm, wet, firm flesh rippled and contracted around you, sucking him in, pulling him deeper inside your tight cunt. His eyes rolled back and his head dropped.

Then he looked back up at you, blue eyes blazing.

“Mine,” he growled when he was rooted to the hilt, his heavy balls pressing against your ass.

A sharp gasp left your lips as he stretched you, filled you, the sensation overwhelming and perfect all at once.

Bucky groaned, his grip tightening on your hips as he started to stroke, marking you from the inside out as he punished you with almost brutal thrusts.

“Fuck, Lark, you feel…”

He trailed off, getting lost in his pleasure.

You whimpered, rolling your hips, urging him deeper, putting your hands on his ass to let him know he could take what he wanted.

“Please Bucky!! Please, please, please...”

You were begging for forgiveness and Bucky knew it. He had to stop as his cock pounded wildly, about to spill inside you, far too soon.

He swore under his breath as he calmed down, then pulled back before thrusting forward again, setting a bruising pace that had you clinging to him, nails digging into his shoulders.

Bucky fucked you like he hated you, like he was making you pay for everything. And even though you knew that was what he was feeling, every thrust sent sparks of pleasure shooting through your veins.

Every press of him inside you, every clutch of his hands was a penance you were eager to give.

Your name left his lips like a prayer.

When you came again, when he followed, you both shattered, lost in each other in one of most powerful orgasms of your lives.

Bucky kept keep fucking you through wave after wave of him spurting inside you.

“Fuck, you’re sucking me dry. It’s so good. So fucking good.”

Bucky gripped your hips harder as he kept going, impossibly still hard.

“That’s it, baby. Give it to me. Give me all you got.”

“Yes, Bucky…. So…. good…. Aaaaaahhh!!”

You came with a loud cry of ecstasy.

Bucky’s cock jerked once more at your words and you clung to each other, shaken and spent.

When he pulled out, the sight of his thick, white cum dripping out of you instantly made him grow half-hard again, and he used the head of his cock to drag his it back to your entrance and push it inside you.

“Keep it all in there for me, Lark. Wanna fill you up to the brim. Wanna do over.”

You whimpered and moaned as he fucked you, this time in short, shallow thrusts, your eyes meeting in conveyance of his filthy promise.

Bucky didn’t stop until you came again, shaking and moaning louder. He filled you again, so much so, that your juices dripped down your thighs.

“Fucking beautiful,” Bucky breathed, eyes riveted to the sight.

Afterward, he stayed inside you, pressing his forehead against yours, his breaths ragged and uneven, holding you to him as if you were trying to escape again. You settled into his arms and neither of you spoke again.

Because there would be time for words later.

Maybe tomorrow, you’d talk more.

But tonight, you’d let yourselves have this.

Each other.

-----

Let me know how you feel. Reblog and comment, please!

#mafia! bucky barnes #happy birthday bucky barnes #50’s bucky barnes #ask dj #sebastian stan #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #mob!bucky

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seat-safety-switch · 10 days ago

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You know who has their boot on the throat of the economy? Big Paint. No matter where you are, people need to buy paint, and it's always expensive. Used to be, paint was three bucks a can. Then they got six buck cans. Now it's twenty-two dollars for a spray can, and an instalment plan to get enough to turn your baseboards Landlord White again. Last week, my cousin thought of the colour purple in a positive light, and someone from Cloverdale showed up at his house to ask him for eight dollars.

It's really bad, because I've got all these things I want to be cool new colours. Unfortunately, none of them are worth me spending the money to make them those cool new colours. Auto body shop technicians know all too well the pain of fogging a $250 Honda with $600 in Bondo on it with $800 in paint. Especially when they screw up a pass, and have to throw another hundo or so into the roaring fire.

Usually, my instinct with this kind of thing is to make my own paint. Screw those know-nothing big-brain corporate types. Grinding up pine cones, twigs, bushes, and expired pudding did make a colour, but it wasn't very appealing. Intern called it "Baby Shit Brown." We only sent a couple thousand gallons of that to Home Depot, before they asked us to stop leaving it in their store and driving away real fast.

There is hope, though. I've been paying attention to the highway repair schedule, and if you drive real close to the trucks, you can at least get a little bit of yellow or white splashed off of the road when they are painting it. Sure, that makes everyone working on the job site mad, but we're all suffering under Big Paint's cruel yoke. Don't get angry at me: get angry at Home Depot for not throwing the returned cans away in their unlocked dumpster. Y'all owe me for all those unpaid invoices for Baby Shit Brown that we've been sending to your headquarters with other companies' names on the top.

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starrdream · 3 days ago

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Trouble

Anakin Skywalker x f!reader sumary: You catch the eye of a handsome Jedi at your rather inappropriate job includes: SMUT , piv, slight praise, overstimulation(kinda), lmk if i missed something

It was no secret that The Republic was struggling. The pay for your old job was nothing short of awful and borderline embarrassing considering the media kept saying the economy was thriving.

You weren't exactly surprised-you were in the middle of a war after all. That's how you ended up where you currently are-at a strip club.

Was it your dream job? No, definitely not, but the money was there and that was your main concern. And to say it wasn't fun would be a lie, considering you only had to look pretty and flirt with men.

It was like clubbing and getting payed for it. And it came with perks-you could come in whenever you'd like and get free drinks. Definitely a win-win situation.

Tonight was no different. The lights were a strong, purple color, the club was full and loud. You were contemplating on leaving as you took another sip of your drink.

So I've already made about, what? 400 credits? That should be plenty fo-

Your calculations were interrupted by a young and very handsome man walking in. Judging by his looks-the dark robes and tall boots-he was a Jedi.

Suddenly, leaving without at least saying hi seemed like the worst idea ever. You finished your drink and quickly adjusted your hair and bra before walking over to where he was.

He stood at the bar, seemingly alone and lost in thought as he sipped on some ridiculously blue beverage.

Luckily for you, he noticed you walking up to him and shot you a smug grin before you ever reached him.

"Why hello" You smile when you're close enough to place your hand on his shoulder. "You look lost." You tease.

"I'm doing just fine sweetheart." He chuckled, leaning into your touch. "You got a name?"

"Well you could call me trouble." You joked.

Thank gods for your charm and wit because never in your life would you be getting dicked down this good without it. It took you less than 15 minutes of shamelessly flirting with the boy, whose name you learned was Anakin, to get him to be all over you.

You didn't even ask, he offered, no-begged you to sleep with him with those subtle innuendos. Not to mention he payed way more than intended, what a gentleman.

This man was the definition of perfect. Everything about him seemed to be sculpted by gods themselves-the curve of his muscles, the line of his jaw, those beautiful eyes burning into your ass as he pounded into you from behind.

Tears were flowing freely down your face-not from pain, not from discomfort but the sheer pleasure and high you were feeling. If there was a perfect size for one's dick, it'd be whatever Anakin walked around with.

It was just the right thickness, not painful but thick enough for you to feel the familiar burn of being stretched out. It was heavy to hold too, your wrist was sore from stroking him earlier. The length? You didn't even care. More along the lines of, you couldn't-because his tip was pushing against your cervix with every thrusts, bruising it and making your head spin to the point where you couldn't think straight.

It wasn't all for nothing-he knew how to use both his cock and fingers. You could probably get off on them alone for the rest of your life and never complain. It's like he knew where to rub your spots for years, despite only knowing you for an hour.

None of your exes could've done this. Hell, half of them couldn't get you to cum. This was on a completely different level.

As if he couldn't get any better, he was vocal too. Not something extravagant but it was there and you could tell he wasn't holding back. The whimpers, soft grunts and puffs made you tighten and flutter around him.

This was borderline dehumanizing-the sounds, the way it felt, the way it happened.. It had you rethinking if this maybe was your dream job.

"That's it baby, come on.." He encouraged. "You got it, give me one more."

This wasn't the first round of the night neither. He ate you out mercilessly, then fingered you, splitting you in half while claiming he was "prepping you for his cock"

"Nghh, Anakin" You moaned, burying your face further into the silky pillow, smearing your tears and what was left of your make-up into it.

"You're doing so good, c'mon.." He huffed, pace not faltering for even a second. One of his hands was on your hip, repeatedly fucking you back onto him. The other hand was all over your ass, squeezing and groping your skin.

"Mmph..g-gonna cum.." You whine, biting down on your lip as the familiar warmth bubbles up in your lower tummy. Your pussy is squeezing him, serving as a constant reminder of your impending orgasm.

Anakin's breath hitches as he hears you whine, his hand tightening around your hip. "Fuck, yes." He huffed. "Let me hear you baby.."

With a desperate whimper, you convulse around him, unraveling before him for the 3rd time tonight. Anakin would't be Anakin if he did't fuck you through your orgasm.

He kept going at a slower, firmer pace. He wanted to prolong your pleasure for as long as possible. "Fuckk, just like that pretty girl." He hummed, his own orgasm approaching fast.

Withing seconds he was filling you up, his breathing labored and head thrown back. He slowly pulled out after a few shallow thrusts, still holding your hip as he caught his breath.

"Damn.." He let go of you and plopped down on the bed next to you. Your hips were twitching, your body clearly still sensitive from the intense love making just seconds prior.

"You did so good f'me." Anakin mumbled as he sat up. You sat up too, looking up at him as he got dressed.

"I'd stay for cuddles but I have training first thing tomorrow morning." Anakin joked, zipping his trousers up.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Well good luck, Jedi Knight."

"Master." Anakin corrected you, shooting a playful glare your way.

"Master." You correct yourself as you stand up.

"I hope we could continue our..business in the future." Anakin said as he put on his robes, watching you slip back into your lingerie. "I plan on coming back."

"I'd say we could, it was quite the pleasure doing business with you." You teased as the two of you walked out of the room and back into the club.

"Have a good night." He smiled softly-a genuine, warm smile before kissing your cheek.

You watched him leave, staring at his broad shoulders and confident step, hoping, praying that he would return to the club. To you.

A/N:I'm genuinely begging you guys to request something i have no ideas but I've been wanting to write lately. Also I changed my whole color theme lol

#star wars #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #sw anakin #anakin fanfiction #anakin star wars #star wars anakin #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker x you #anakin smut #anakin x reader #anakin x you #anakin skywalker x female reader

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 2 years ago

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Having the most hilarious little thoughts about Richard Harrington making a deal with demon!Eddie, trading wealth and success in exchange for his firstborn.

The Harringtons climb the social ladder, Richard’s business thrives. Little Steven is born, grows up … and nothing ever happens, so they sort of put it out of their minds and never tell him about how they sold him off to a creature from the underworld before he was even conceived.

The day after Steve’s 18th birthday, they return from a business trip to find their son frantically cleaning up the remains of a party. They’re three minutes into a lecture on how there’s soda and chips all over the expensive carpet when Eddie materializes in the middle of the living room, ready to collect his prize.

Chaos ensues.

Steve is freaking out. Why is that red-eyed, black-clad weirdo lounging on their couch, chunky boots up on the table as if he owns the place? Why is he looking at him like he’s a particularly tasty piece of meat? Why does the guy only need to snap his fingers and Steve finds himself straddling his lap, one ring-clad hand groping his ass? What the actual fuck is going on?

The Harringtons are not amused. They have invested so much money into Steve over the years, thinking that Eddie had forgotten all about them, and NOW he shows up? Eddie just shrugs, idly playing with a lock of Steve’s hair. He never specified WHEN he’d come back, did he? What would he have wanted with a baby, anyhow? What is he, a daycare?

“We thought you wanted to eat him!” blurts Mrs. Harrington, and Eddie just absolutely loses his shit.

What the fuck is WRONG with those people? They thought he ATE babies? And they were still fine with giving him theirs? Holy fucking shit, humans are disgusting! This is it, deal’s off, he’s taking their wealth and success away again. No, the boy is still coming with him, do they honestly expect him to just up and leave him in this shithole? No fucking way! Oh, and they better never try and summon him again or those incriminating documents will find their way to the tax authorities!

And that is how Steve finds himself living with a sassy, strangely kind-hearted demon who may or may not own his soul - they’re still trying to figure out the specifics of that.

# hype's demon!Eddie fic

#steddie #steddie brainrot #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #fanfiction #fanfiction writer #fic idea?#hype's demon!eddie fic

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threeacttragedy · 2 months ago

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Entry 19: The One Where I Perform Mis-Directed as a Three Act Comedy, Act II

“Before you started the bumpers cars act, for the record unless you’re eight years old trying to make your dolls kiss, smashing your teeth together is not an ideal approximation of romance.”

“And [Hattie’s] gaze fell to [Anthony’s], felt as if somehow it was attached to his, as if there were filaments between them hooking together every time their glances connected.”

“Maybe there had already been the faintest glimmer of this horrifying attachment even then. His first steps on a map to a very unexpected destination but somehow it still felt as if there’d been no warning at all. As if a thousand insignificant moments and incidents had quietly woven together until one day he’d turned and he’d fallen and he’d been caught by a net of those impossibly unbreakable threads which he hadn’t realized existed.”

“…[Anthony] was not a touchy-feely person… But when he and Hattie, when their characters had kissed each other into the wall, he’d almost purred against her like a damn cat.”

“It was a closed set this morning so thankfully a very minimal number of crew personnel…On the flip side, the team reserved this level of set closure, basically a skeleton crew, for only the most explicit scenes and semi-nudity.”

“But she never had to worry in the past about being more involved in the dance than she ought to be. Not once had she arranged herself in a castmate’s arms and felt as if they were doing something truly, genuinely intimate…"

“Quite clearly the issue here was her scene partner and the potential for an amped up repeat of what had happened last time. Hard nipples, damp thighs, and a heart trying to burst out of her chest, all from a fully clothed screen kiss. This time, they’d both be all but naked, writhing on a bed, gasping, grinding, sighing.”

“This mattress feels very sturdy.”

“The moment Iris bounces him into the mattress in episode 8..."

“If millions of people were going to watch her ride Anthony like a mechanical bull…”

“Stevie pointed at the ornate mirror near the bed. Her gesture a spectacular symphony of sarcasm. ‘As your pre-seduction routine appears to involve a great deal of hair flicking and smokey glances at yourself, have at it.’”

“Are you looking for something?”

“‘Falling buckets,’ Hattie said. ‘Or collapsing bedframes or beams coming loose…’”

“…when the floorboard beneath [Anthony’s] boot performed a preemptive strike. The wood tilted inwards, just enough to throw off his footing…and his full body weight surged forward. She could see later in hindsight that he had attempted to both shield her head and not crush her underneath him…"

“Anthony landed on his knees with a painful grunt but had barely hit the floor before he was at her side, touching the back of her head and her shaking shoulders. She just had time to register a little too much cool air on the backs of her thighs, then he was smoothing her skirts down protecting what remained of her dignity in an automatic gesture.”

“’Gentle, this bit,’ [Stevie] said. “Romantic, soft.”

“But in the ways that mattered, especially in the context of an intimate scene and the scripts that they all dreaded most, he’d been surprising. If she wanted to expand into the territory of actual truth, he’d been the most confusing, unsettling, and fun scene partner she’d had in four years.”

“They were still holding hands. They realized this simultaneously and let go immediately.”

“’She’s my baby,’ [Cassidy] explained as she turned the key in the ignition. ‘The first thing I ever treated myself to with my own money, and she’s been with me for the whole crazy ride.’ She patted the gear box fondly. ‘I could never part with Penelope.’”

When discussing the underdog love story on Leicester Square, Hattie commented, “If she were a viewer, she’d be shipping them hard.”

While Anthony and Hattie were looking at gravestones, one caught Hattie’s eye…

“The dates here coincided with the time period of Leicester Square… Below the words was a symbol of a V-shaped flying dove. At first glimpse, it strongly resembled two raised fingers.”

While reminiscing about growing up, Hattie recalled, “...her mother reading aloud to her from a battered old copy of The Magic Faraway Tree.”

“’Do you remember the day we first met,’ [Hattie] asked suddenly."

“In all honesty, no. His early days on various TV and film sets had all blurred into an archived jumble of long hours, interchangeable costars, despised hotel living. As difficult as it was to imagine now, he had no distinct memory of the very first time he had ever seen Hattie. Although, he might have a vague recollection of earrings shaped like miniature garden gnomes. He did, however, have a crystal-clear memory of the first time he’d actually seen Hattie with all that the emphasis on that word implied.”

“She’d obviously read the ‘no’ in his expression, and her smile widened.”

“’It was a Tuesday morning at Malvern Abbey.’”

“And now she felt excessively wrong sharing close whispering breaths with Patrick especially with Anthony sitting on a folding chair a few meters behind the camera awaiting his queue to slip in for the daydream portion of the scene, and currently watching their every move. His pose was typically lazy, one boot crossed over the other, his fingers tapping on the arm of the chair, but he hadn’t looked away from them once. Something in his demeanor had the usually easy-going Patrick antsy as hell, probably the twitching eyelid.”

“’A definite improvement,’ Stevie’s voice came from behind them, very dryly. ‘And if we’d actually started shooting yet, we could probably call it a day.’”

#lukola #nicola coughlan #luke newton #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only #my humor #mis-directed #lucy parker

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snakehatepage · 2 months ago

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pretend this posted right the first time PLS IM BEGGING if you saw this before no u didnt yes this is a repost blah blah blah

cw:smut mdni men dni, fem reader

You've been waiting for hours, or at the very least what feels like hours. Sevika keeps promising you just one more hand of poker, just one more drink, but you begin to get impatient. You tried to be patient, to be good, you tried so hard.. You just couldn't stand it, not when she's been so busy lately, and you've been so needy without her. You've barely even seen her, and now she wants to sit here and ignore you? Leave you watching her play?

“Sev..” you draw out softly, body itching for her touch. She puffs on her cigarillo, barely even glances at you, blowing a plume of smoke away from you. “What is it?” she grunts, shoving more of her money into the pot.

“I thought you said one more hand” you sigh, trying not to sound as desperate as you felt. She cocks an eyebrow, “You getting impatient?” she glances at her cards, back at you, shit eating smirk on her face. You swallow, roll your eyes, getting snippy. “I didn't say that, I was just asking..” her gaze was burning you, your insides flipping and flopping.

Impatient didn't even begin to describe the need you felt, so eager to just go home and have her to yourself. “Watch it.” she warns easily, turning back to her hand. And so you do, you try to be good, to be patient and bite your tongue, but it is proving to be increasingly difficult.

You squirmed uncomfortably in the booth seat, your patience wearing thinner with each passing minute. Sevika remained oblivious, or maybe she chose to ignore you, paying attention to only her poker game and the unimportant chatter with the other players. Her hand hovered over a pile of bills, considering her next move.

Unable to hold your tongue any longer, you leaned in close, your voice barely above a whisper. "Sevika..." You paused, gathering your courage. "I need it now" Your cheeks flushed, a mix of impatience and desire curling deep in your tummy.

As if sensing your desperation, Sevika suddenly pushed back from the table, collecting her winnings, and clearly peeved with you. She stood tall, towering over the booth. she reached down, gripping your arm firmly and guiding you out of the booth without a word to anyone.

You stumbled slightly as she led you through the crowded bar, your heart pounding in anticipation. She drags you to one of the storage rooms, pushing you inside, she follows, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

"Sevika..." you started to protest, but your voice caught in your throat as she advanced on you, backing you up against the wall. Her hand cupped your chin, tilting your face up to meet her eyes.

"I told you to be patient," she murmured "And yet here you are, acting like a spoiled brat in the middle of my game." She leaned in closer, her breath hot against your face. "Didn't I warn you to watch it?"

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. She took a step closer, invading your personal space as she loomed over you. "I.. I just wanted.." you started to protest, but your voice trailed off as she took another step.

Her hand stayed on your chin "You just wanted what, baby?" she asked, shoving you to your knees. happily you oblige, plopping down at her feet. her thumb strokes your bottom lip teasingly. "What is it you want so badly? That couldn't wait?"

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry as her fingers pressed against your lips, demanding entrance. Instinctively, your mouth opened, allowing those two long, thick fingers to push inside, your tongue flicking out to taste her skin. The almost sweet, slightly bitter flavor of her cigarillo smoke linger on your taste buds as she pushes her fingers deeper, brushing the back of your throat.

You whine and gag, muffled, your eyes fluttering shut as she begins to grind the toe of her boot against your clothed cunt. The rough, textured leather rubbed against your aching core, sending jolts of pleasure shooting through your body. You bucked your hips instinctively, trying to gain more friction, more pressure against your throbbing clit.

"That's it, baby. such a nasty girl," Sevika growled, her fingers pumping in and out of your mouth, setting a steady rhythm. Her other hand gripped your hair, holding you in place as she used your face, fucking your mouth with her fingers in time with the rough grinds of her boot.

"Fuck, look at you. So desperate for my touch, my attention. You're dripping already, aren't you?" Sevika taunted, her voice a low, wicked rasp. She pressed her boot harder against you, the cotton of your underwear rubbing directly against your clit, making you see stars. Your hips jerked needily, chasing your climax.

"That's it, cum for me. Cum on my boot like a good girl, nasty baby.." she coos as she pushes her fingers deeper, hitting the back of your throat and making you gag. Tears sprung to your eyes, but that's all you needed.

Your body tensed, back arching as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. A muffled moan vibrated around Sevika's fingers as your pussy clenched and spasmed, soaking your panties through.

She gently pulls her fingers out of your mouth, running her fingers through your hair. “You okay?”

You nod, laugh softly as you stand on shaky legs. “Yeah.. Take me home now?” You ask with a tilt in your voice. She smirks in a way that ties your stomach up again, “Gladly.”

reblogs and comments r much appreciated! I kinda hate this but I need to post it before I end it. k bai love u

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l0s3rd0wnt0wn · 2 months ago

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YOU ONE OF THEM QUEERS???

Yandere Conner Kent x Weird black!reader

So what if you invited your brother's best friend to watch One Piece with you? He said he never had! What kind of psycho has never watched One Piece? You thought, but then again, the psycho was a test tube baby; he wouldn't know about the amazing run of Disney Channel back in the day, how it used to be, or how hyped everyone was for the Kaido fight with Luffy, or understand the cultural significance of a DBZ movie in theaters. You had to show this little lab rat the greatness of TV. Sure, he knows, but he doesn't know more. I mean, he never rushed home to watch Toonami after school. You had to teach him, and well, your little guinea pig was eager to know. Connor wanted to get closer to you in every way possible—be your best friend, be your favorite superhero, maybe even boyfriend if you catch the hints he's dropping. No, he doesn't just want to play Smash Bros; he wants you guys to be more than tag team buddies, but you'll only see him as something friendly. He calls you "babe," and you hit him with a "bro," you're breaking the poor boy's heart. He holds your waist; you think it's just a friendly gesture. He leans his head on your shoulder, smelling the cocoa butter you spread in your dreads and how it sticks to anything he wears. But to you, "Awe, the little guinea pig is sleepy," you teased, and this was the night you invited him over to the mansion. I mean, there's literally an entertainment room; it would be a shame not to watch the best story created by my man on a freaking projector!

"Wow, you're early; the popcorn ain't even poppin'!" you joked, a coy little smile on your face.

"I like being on time, babe," he smirked back, entering the mansion. "Hey, no boots, mister! This floor is hardwood, and I know you walk around in mud!" you warned, but there was still a playful edge to it.

“Ugh, babe, buy me a drink first before you see my feet!” Conner said with a big grin, and you made a fake gagging sound, causing the two of you to laugh. You took him by the hand and pulled him to the entertainment room.

"So how far are you in One Piece?" you asked. You forced him to watch it, but you couldn't call it force, because he watches it with you, telling him to listen and obey whatever you say. "Don't watch the movie; it's a waste of money." He was looking forward to it, but if you hate it, he hates it too. "Yuck, I hate the comic writer; he retcons almost everything if he can't fit it into a plot." If it's that bad, he won't read their comics.

"This fandom is pretty toxic, but come on, the merch is amazing! I mean, look at these MHA pins; they're too cute!" If you like those pins on your bag so much, then he'll wear a Todoroki pin on his leather jacket to make you smile.

You sat with Conner in the theater; it was the whole Cake Island arc. You were already on Wano, but Conner was new to the game, so you didn't mind going a couple of arcs back for him. His head was laid gently on your shoulder; you felt him sniff you and nuzzle his nose into your neck, which made you giggle.

"Dude, quit staring in. Try to pay attention; this is important for later arcs," you always say, but you're way more important to him.

"You say that every time," Conner huffed.

"Cause it is!" you gave a half-hearted laugh.

You looked down at him, and for some reason, the glowing light of the projector made you look stunning. The blue light cascading on your dark skin made you look so surreal, as if you weren't from this planet.

"Come on, Conner, just pay attention for a minute. I promise it'll be worth your while," you said softly. It felt so intimate, like you guys were in an actual movie theater, and you were like.

"Shhh, baby! We can't make out right now; the fight scene is happening." You're such a dense dork, but oh, it just makes it even better.

"Yeah, I'll pay attention." News flash: he won't. He'll be too busy staring at you and how your face lights up during the fights. His super hearing means he'll still listen, but he'd rather watch you, and maybe later he'll watch a YouTube video explaining the arc.

"God, I wish I were as cool as Sanji. He looks so wicked in that red cape! You know, you should really get a cape like that. I know your whole thing is leather jackets, but come on, you have to try out red. Plus, I heard it makes a person's eyes..." You trailed off as you turned to look at Conner, who had his full attention on you, and, God, it made you blush a slight purple.

"Shit, I'm rambling again. I know you don't want to hear me yap. Good, I feel like such a skeeze-"

"No, you're not," he said softly but firmly. It made you giggle like a schoolgirl.

"What?~" you said, nervously

"I like your voice a lot, baby." Now, when he says it like that, it doesn't feel like a cute little nickname he came up with.

"And I like it especially when you talk about shit you like. You're so passionate about it; you don't see that with regular people. You're so genuine," he continues, getting closer. You turn away, covering your face. God, you're such a dork. He just wants to take you right here and now, but that would be unlawful.

"So what, you think I'm cool or something?" You laughed with a half-hearted smirk.

"I think you're amazing, babe," he answered, grabbing your face to look at him, and you laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. This made Conner laugh too.

"I'm trying to be smooth, and you're laughing at me!" Conner chuckled.

"Smooth? Yeah, right! You're as smooth as the acne on my forehead!" Then you both burst out laughing, your foreheads connecting. "Goofy-ass motherfucker!" you said in between giggles.

"Come on, baby, you know I've moved some; they say I've got rizz~" You pushed Test Baby to the side, snorting.

"Who the hell lied to your bum ass?" you snickered.

"No one!" He protested.

"Uh-huh," you pulled yourself closer to him, wrapping your long arms around his neck. "You have no game."

"You just don't want to admit I'm cooler than you," he quipped.

"In your clone dreams," you snapped playfully.

"You're in my cloned dreams," he said, your face getting uncomfortably close; it made you laugh.

"That shit was corny as hell," and you and Conner giggled some more; he felt your touch ever so gently.

"Can I?"

"Can you?"

He then pressed his lips to yours, and Conner could have sweated as he ascended to another state of being. Your lips tasted like buttered popcorn and cheap soda—something he loved more than anything, especially if that flavor was you. He pulled you closer, his hands wrapping around your slim waist. Your hand was now placed on his cheek as you felt him slowly start to get on top of you, and you let him. And shit, who cares if you're kissing your brother's best friend? He should have called dibs by now.

You gasp for air, but Conner doesn't let you recover. He presses his lips against you hard this time, passionately. He has kissed a whole ton of people before, which gives him the experience you lack. You feel him suck on your tongue, and you whimper just a little, shivering. Is this how it feels to kiss? ‘Cause if it is, God fucking bless! You feel his gloved hand reach underneath your Wonder Man hoodie. You grab his arm and pull away. He hears the great Superboy whine like a puppy, and it makes you snicker just a little. Your hand that was on his cheek moves to his now swollen lips.

"Kon, pay attention; this part is important. This is when Luffy fights Katakuri, and we get to see his Devil Fruit," you whispered against his lips. Da fuck? You stopped good kissing and touching for an anime fight??

Your lucky he thinks your hot.

(Made this one while listening to chapple roan God I love that little lesbian)

#dc x reader #batfamily x neglected reader #yandere batboys #x black reader #weird!reader #conner kent #conner kent x reader #yandere conner kent #reader just like me fr!!#black!reader #yandere batfamily

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evieelyzabethh · 2 years ago

Text

Sugar and Spike

pairing(s): Spike x fem!reader

summary: after a night of patrol goes wrong, Spike starts noticing some changes in himself, mainly that Buffy's sweetest friend won't leave his mind and that she would never look at him the same if she knew what he wanted to do to her.

warnings: smut!!! a smidge of yandereness, kinda a sex or die fic, possessive spike, handjob, unprotected piv sex (wrap it before you tap it), oral (fem receiving), praise kink, biting/marking (mentions of blood), a little bit of spanking, overstimulation, riding, fingering, veryyy little plot, and I think thats about it.

In hindsight, they should've kept a better eye on him. It was an odd night of patrolling, the usual gaggle of vampires being a demon or two this time around. Big tall thing that appeared out of nowhere and left as soon as it came. Spike, always with little regard for the consequences of his actions, ran right in. Ran so hard he went right through the demon as it went into smoke. He breathed it in before going into a coughing fit, as if he could feel it in his nose and lungs, spreading in his chest like a vine that pulled everything impossible tight before releasing him like he was never in its grasp . Red flag one.

It fell on him like rain, some clumping into what looked like pink sparkles in his hair, on his jacket, his worn boots. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair, pulling away expecting to see it gunked together, but there was nothing there. It felt like his hair had been hit by my mist, slightly damp and cool. It seeped into his exposed skin, adhering itself into a pink sheen which also disappeared after only a few minutes. He remembered trying to brush it off, expecting it to feel wet but it was just slick. It was admittedly infuriating, especially since the feeling wouldn't go away. Red flag two.

“Buffy!” He shouted, rubbing his hands on his jeans as if it was going to wipe away the phantom feeling, but his complaints were met with apathy.

“There’s nothing there, Spike.” A groan bubbled in his chest.

“Astute observation, Slayer, but it feels like something’s there.” You were there beside him, something that would’ve gone unnoticed had he not been hit with your scent as your fingers brushed against his hand. He pulled away quickly out of instinct, not as subtle as he would’ve liked to because you noticed and scampered off in between Buffy and Giles. The distance between you and him got larger and the two of you talked about a mall trip you had planned and Willow was the only one to stick with him. She humored him, allowing him to shower at her place and taking a sample of skin only to find nothing. No residue, nothing abnormal, nothing had changed at all. Red flag three.

But he was sure it was fine. Nothing had really changed. You had been a bit cautious though.

You were prone to worrying, and he couldn't blame you. There was a lot to worry about when your best friends hunted demons and one of them was a literal creature of the night. You worried about Buffy so much he genuinely feared you would collapse from all the stress you put yourself under. Pursuing a nursing degree so they could avoid hospital visits unless absolutely necessary because none of you had the money. Having him train you in basic self-defense because you hated feeling like dead weight. You took up Latin and all of the other dead languages in those old dusty books just so you could be useful. You tied yourself in knots just to be sweet. God, you were so sweet. Even to your own detriment, like pure sugar that was going to rot his teeth eventually.

The more time you spent together, the more the rot seemed to take his brain than his teeth. His mouth never got anywhere near you; Buffy made sure of that. He wished he could say it was because she was babying you too much, that you were also tired of Buffy making Spike seem like the biggest mistake you could ever make. To be fair, he hardly knew you. He knew of you; he knew of the pink wardrobe and the fluffy socks and the pretty shoes. He knew of you as Buffy's cute neighbor who stopped by so often that you might as well live with them. You weren't being a baby, you were being cautious, even more now. He almost wished you didn't believe him as much as you did, maybe you'd keep visiting him. He hadn't seen you in days and it was really starting to take a toll on him. His leg bounced and he got in the bad habit of biting his nails, which was starting to get annoying with how often he had to repaint them.

If you were here, you would repaint them. You would sit your pretty self on his busted couch, and you'd have a little bag with you with all your pins and charms that jingled like the earrings that dangle from your ears. In your bag would be at least three shades of pink, a range of blacks and greys, and a wild card or two, maybe a blue or a green. You'd let him pick his color, despite knowing he always went for black. You asked anyway, just in case he decided to go with pink just to humor you. Had you walked through right now, he would've obliged. He would've done anything you asked him too. It wasn't even that he was lonely, but it was getting to suffocate in here. It was getting hot, like a fire was spreading. Each breath felt smoke filled, his skin was on fire, his skin was getting damp, like the dust had fallen again. His hand was shaky as he put a cigarette between his lips and lit it, surely the smell would break him out of what had to be a daze.

If you were here, you'd make a joke about him needing to air the place out. He'd probably open the door and call that enough air, but he liked his privacy, and he didn't like the idea of anyone just being able to waltz right in. You would want to make a joke about no one wanting to visit him, but you’d bite your tongue at the fear of being too harsh. You always got that look in your eye when you thought something that could be misconstrued as mean. You took your lip into your teeth and your pretty eyelashes flitted and you looked away. He thought about what it would be like to bite your lips, wanting to see what they looked like, all red and even prettier than they were before. Just a taste, that's all he wanted, a taste.

He got up to open up the door only for that phantom feeling to return. All over his body, it felt like he had stepped out into the sun, like every molecule that made up his body was vibrating and mere seconds from combusting. His breathing got ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly and his brain going into overdrive. He squeezed his eyes shut as if it would make it go away, but even from behind his eyelids, you were there. The idea of you, your smile, your laughter, fuck the very way you said his name. It sounded so nice coming from you.

The way you said it when he got injured in a fight when you would patch up his wounds and have a bag of blood for him to replace what he lost. “Spike.” you would say. Like he should’ve known better than to just throw himself into danger. Not even bothering to consider the possibility that he did it to look heroic, or maybe in your care with your hands over his chest. There’s no reason for him to be this beaten and bruised from some baby vamp; William the Bloody. Spike? He had pride, but not as much as Angelus. It was easily quenched by the fact that he was in no way losing with your delicate hands tracing over faded scars on his chest and feeding him blood while they were just dust.

“Spike.” Buffy would say, her tone laced with less concern and more disapproval. She knew something was up. After all they had gone through together, vampires should’ve been nothing for him. He had to space out his “fuck ups” just to get her off his back, just to get her voice out of his head. She didn’t say his name like you did.

There wasn’t much better than how you said his name when it was just the two of you. Being together in his crypt, sometimes in your own bedroom which you had invited him into much to Buffy’s chagrin. “It’s Spike,” you had said, “how many times have we saved the world with him? I think he’s earned it.” It sent shivers down his spine. He would’ve saved the world so much sooner if it meant being able to be in your space. If it meant getting to hear you say his name through fits of laughter, trying to regain your breath while still finding enough to utter his name. “Spike.” you said, your hand over his while you giggled. He felt that heat now, felt the heat of all your touches culminating right now. All over his skin, tensing his muscles, holding his chest as he fought for breath himself.

While he had the chance, he should’ve raided your underwear drawer. Now he was left to fist his dick with just the memory of you. You wouldn’t notice a pair or two gone, surely you wouldn’t. It was the type of small thing you would overlook because really what is a pair or two. You wouldn’t want him to be in pain, hearing his situation now, you’d feel like it was all your fault. The least you could spare was a pair of your prettiest panties for him to wrap around his cock while he fisted himself to the thought of you and how you would say his name now.

The closest he’d gotten would be after a big battle. You had taken a beating, by the time you had gotten to a safe space you had lost a dangerous amount of blood, but the sounds that came out of your mouth were so delicious. And you trusted him to carry you to safety, your bloody hand wrapping itself around his bicep to maintain some tether to consciousness. “Spike.” your voice dripping with pain, but even that wasn’t enough to mask how pretty you sounded. He felt bad then for how hard it got him, but there is such a thin line between pain and pleasure. The only difference now would be circumstance, and he would never hurt you. This would be good for you, the both of you, you just had to let him. You just had to say his name.

“Spike?” In that moment, he knew there had to be some high power looking out for him when he heard your voice. Dream-like, and soft, like the wind could have blown it out and away from your lips. “Spike?!” you said again. He couldn’t tell if it was his shred of restraint or his body’s unwillingness to listen to his brain that kept him glued to his couch.

“Now really isn’t a good time, love.” He tried to keep his voice level, he really did, but it was too much. And you weren’t stupid, he heard the heels of your shoes against the hard floor and smelt you before he even saw you. And fuck you smelt heavenly.

“Are you okay? What happened-” You looked like you had a halo above your head, or maybe he was much further gone than he had thought. You cut yourself off in shock. When you had walked in, you hadn’t expected to catch Spike with his hands down his pants.

“You know what, I’m just gonna go a-and come back later.” You tried to smile in an attempt to make the situation less awkward than it needed to be, but he grabbed you by your wrist.

“Wait-I just need-fuck. I just need you to stay for a bit. I don’t feel good.” Your eyes met and you saw the sheen of what you assumed to be sweat covering his chest and face. His pupils blown out, his hair out of place, his labored breathing, like he couldn’t catch his breath. Oddly enough, the sheen had a pink tinge, and despite the fact that his fangs were protruding, his vampire face hadn’t appeared. You reached out to touch his forehead to surprisingly find a temperature. He groaned at the contact, both wanting to melt into your skin and like it physically pained him.

“What happened?” He declined the answer, instead pushing his head more into the palm of your hand, tipping his head to sniff the inside of your wrist. “What are you doing?” You tried to pull away and put some distance in between the two of you, but he pulled you back, even closer than before.

“You smell so good.” He nosed his way past your wrist and up your arm till he made it to your collarbone, trying to find where he could hear your blood pump the loudest. “Stop it!” you pushed against him as soon as you felt the tip of his fangs attempting to break skin. To both of your surprise, he let you. It looked like it pained him to do so, his eyes screwed shut and his hand gripping the arm of his couch until the wood snapped.

“If this is about the demon thing, I’m gonna go get Willow, okay? You just need to stay right here.” The authority you had laced in your voice was cute.

“Just stay here with me, yeah? There’s no need to get Willow. We don’t need Willow.” His voice had dropped an octave, his pupils blown and his brain damn near empty. Anything went in one ear then out the other as he held your hands in his, staring through you as if daring you to defy him.

“Spike, you aren’t well.” You had tried to reason, but all he heard was that you weren’t saying no because you didn’t want this. You were concerned for his well being, even when he had you pinned down and his teeth at your neck, each breath moving you closer to him drawing blood, you were saying no because you were concerned he didn’t want this. You somehow thought he didn’t want you.

“I’ve never felt better, baby.”, he said-practically fucking growled. Hell if he wanted you, he needed you. He pressed himself into you, his hands grabbing at anything he could to ground himself, his left at the base of your scalp and his right bunching the fabric of your skirt in his hands. He breathed into your neck, nipping and nicking at bare skin then soothing it with his tongue and kisses. He worked himself up over you, taking and taking until he was drunk, his tongue lolled out as he put his head on your chest.“Can I fuck you.”

You had been caught in a daze yourself, his words had barely registered. You had more sense than he did at this point, finding enough resolve to shake your head. “Please.” he begged, groaning it out through clenched teeth. “I need you to make it feel better, please God just make it feel better.” He had pushed his hips into your hand, his weeping cock leaking onto you, pleading with you to touch it. “I’ll make it good for you, I swear, just be my sweet girl, yeah? Just make it better.”

You experimentally rubbed the tip, and he whimpered. His hand grabbing your wrist so fast a look of shock flashed across his face. You took that as a sign to pull away but he put your hand back around him, pushing your hand up and down his base. “Too much too quick, love.”

Any hesitancy you had was swallowed as he smashed his lips into yours. It was urgent and quick, almost bruising how hard he kissed and held you as if you were going to disappear at any point. He tugged at a handful of hair, catching you in a moan that he used to force tongue into your mouth, sucking it as you pumped his dick at a painfully slow pace.

His kisses made you breathless, and it was then you realized that he likely forgot in his haze that you actually needed air. He moaned into your lips, the sound spreading throughout your body and shaking you to your core. It wasn’t lost on him how damp your underwear had gotten, had he had the strength to pull away to touch you he would, but the mere seconds his skin would be off yours was enough of a deterrent to keep him in place.

You tried to move away, but his hand kept you in place. “Don’t move.”, he rushed it out, a tone that otherwise would’ve been more commanding had he not been weak himself. “Keep going.” His hips bucked and stuttered, his movements becoming erratic the more faint your touches became. Like it was a warning; let me up for air and I’ll keep touching you. He whined at the thought of you pulling away. That wasn’t fair.

His lips parted from yours, settling for the corner of your mouth before moving to your jawline to your neck, then just under your ear. You gasped for breath, you numb with the ecstasy of air and the feeling of his rushed kisses. He was getting close. Your hand was covered in his sticky pre-cum, his cock even more so as your hand moved alone over him, his own hand now grabbing at your shirt at the feeling. You squeezed at the bass, a motion he clearly enjoyed with how his body tensed up. A series of obscenities flowed from his pretty lips as he came, spurts of his cum getting over your pretty pink skirt, an image Spike would get himself off to later.

You didn’t get long to sit in what just happened when he was on you again, laying you on your back and ripping your skirt clean off. You moaned something that sounded like “My skirt!”, but neither one of you were really worried about it.

His lithe fingers were quick, rubbing you through the fabric of your panties, while he kissed up to where you wanted him excruciatingly slow. His hands rubbed and teased at the soft skin of your thighs, marking bruises everywhere he went.

He moaned into you, sniffing you once again, before finding a place he wanted to dig his fangs into. Maybe it was how delicately he stuck in his teeth, maybe it was the lust blown fervor, but it didn’t hurt as much as you anticipated. In fact, you moaned at the intrusion, unable to know what to do with yourself as he sucked and lapped up the blood he had drawn. Your fingers wove into his hair, as if he could be pulled any closer to you than he already was. “You taste so good. So good.” And he let you know as such. The obscene noises that flew from the both of you, the slurping and whines, the pop of his lips as he traveled from one spot to another. But that’s not how he intended to eat you whole.

You were unbelievably wet, soaking through your panties and even Spikes fingers before he took pity on you and decided to pull them aside and plant his fingers into you. Now, you weren’t a virgin, but you had never had sex that felt as good as this. Never had someone in you that had hundreds of years of practice beforehand.

“You’re doing so good, Sweet Girl. So good, can’t get enough of you.” What was an attempt to calm your nerves, had you keening and over the moon, the praise bringing tears to your eyes as you ground yourself in his hand. That didn’t move him along any quicker, his tongue still collecting anything you would give him like he hadn’t been fed in years.

“Spike!” You called out, which finally seemed to get his attention. He saw the glass-like look your eyes had taken and the pout on your face. You looked like you were about to cry. Poor thing, so desperate. He said he’d take care of you, make you feel good. No point in denying the inevitable.

You whined when he pulled out of you just to choke when he began to devour you. His nose at your clit and his tongue plunging into. “Thank you.” he muttered into you, like this was some divine gift to him. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” The combination of his praise and how good he was giving it to you made that coil in your belly tighten and tighten until it threatened to snap. And he just kept going. Completely in his own world, the only thoughts in his mind being about you, how you smelled, how you tasted, god you were so good to him. Letting him eat you out like this, helping him like this. He shouldn’t have expected any less from his girl. His sweet girl. No one else's, you couldn’t be anyone else's after this. His grip tightened around your thighs at the very thought. “Mine.” he said, the vibrations hitting your core deliciously. “Mine.”

“Yours Spike, all yours.” He hummed in approval, inserting two fingers back into you while he kept up his electric pace. He held your hand as it began to be too much, your back arching off the couch and your thighs closing around his head as he just kept going. You called his name as you came, high and higher until it became too heavy on your mouth and you couldn’t say anything at all. The grip you had on his hand had loosened, but he hadn’t let up. He still rambled into you, “Again. Again. Again. Please.”

You didn’t know if your hips were bucking into him or try to wiggle away from him. Either way, both attempts were unsuccessful. With how hard he pulled on your panties they had snapped and had been thrown to the side for the simple crime of being in his way. His forearm lay on your hip keeping you in place. Your hand still laid in his, him squeezing it as if it was any comfort from the inescapable feeling of his tongue licking your thoroughly soaked pussy.

Your toes curled in your frilly socks as you came again on his tongue, and you foolishly expected that to be enough. You would’ve asked him to stop if you could pant out anything more than whines. You would’ve pushed him away if you could manage anything more than weak taps on his forearm. “No more.” you whispered out. “Can’t.” His fingers rubbed your hand as some form of encouragement.

“Yes you can, love.” You shook your head weakly, scooting your hips back only for him to swiftly smack your pussy. You preened on the contact, and he drank in the arousal that gushed out just from that. “My sweet girl isn’t gonna disappoint me, is she? She’s gonna make me all better, isn’t that right?” Your brain was so fogged out you couldn’t even produce a response. You just groaned and squirmed, unable to brace for impact when he smacked you again.

“Spike!” You cried out, but he didn’t care. Heknew you were feeling good from how much you gushed while he tongue fucked your cunt. It was just a bit too much for you right now. You would feel better, you just needed to let go some more. He tried to relax you, tried rubbing mindless shapes on your skin to calm you down as he worked you through your third orgasm, but you just heaved. Your tits bounced with how heavily you breathed, and yet after all of that, he still didn’t feel better. Why didn’t he feel better?

Despite the relief that came from him pausing his abuse, you still whined as he sat up from behind your legs. With your taste still on his tongue, he kissed you. You sighed into him, the feeling of his large hands moving from your hip to under your shirt to touch your tummy and rip your bra in half. You didn’t even notice him moving you into his lap and setting your thighs on either side of him so you straddled him. He thumbed your nipples, pinching and rubbing over them while he relished in the feeling of you cunt so close to his dick.

You didn’t seem to catch on either as he slid in between your folds, too lost of him finally kissing you again. You moaned into this kiss as his fingers dipped to toy with your clit before he whispered in your ear. “Just one more.”

In one fluid motion, he slipped his dick into his cunt, catching you as your limbs went weak. He was so big you felt your eyes water with the pressure of him being in you. You could tell he was struggling to stay still, but the haze had worn off enough for him to regain some sense. He still waited eagerly for you to adjust, brushing the fallen tears from your eyes and kissing your checks to make it all better.

“Too big. It’s too big.” You stuttered. It was all you could manage to mutter out. He cooed at you, his dick growing harder than he thought possible at the feeling of it all and the praise.

“I was made for you, Pretty Girl, you can take it.” You yelped as he jerked his hips into yours, but he just couldn’t help it. You were so pretty like this, all fucked out and dumb. Not a thought behind those eyes of yours and the only thoughts he was capable of was you. How warm you were, how wet you were, how tight you were. You were squeezing him and milking him dry and as much as he tried he just couldn’t stop him self from fucking into you.

“I’m sorry.” and he meant it. You weren’t ready and he couldn’t even tell if he was ready, his body had a mind of his own and he felt himself just slipping into the feeling of being enveloped by you. “Just too good. You’re too good. My good girl. You’re gonna take all I give you, aren’t you, love? You gonna be my sweet girl and take it?” His voice was breathy and low and impossibly hot.

All you could manage was a soft ‘mhm’ as you took him in. It wasn’t like you had any other choice as you bounced on his cock, gripping at his chest and taking in each moan you earned as you drew blood from your scratches.

You felt every inch of him, felt the tip of his dick hit your cervix and kept pounding at it like it was his job; like he would die if he didn’t. You can’t do anything but take it as you screw your eyes shut and just try to breathe as everything in your body fights to hold on to some feeling. It was impossible to think, not when Spike’s hands were all over you and his touch was so incredibly hot. Even stranger, a pink glow began to emanate from him, that or you were closer to passing out than you originally thought. .

He kept you close to his chest as you both chased your impending highs together, your lips meeting in the middle as you moaned and sighed into each other's mouths and he was a goner, rambling like a mad man in your ear, thanking you endlessly for something he couldn’t put his hands on. Maybe it was your release, that you felt coming like a truck. He squeezed at the fat of your hips, pulling you even closer until neither one of you could tell where the other started and ended and you came like that, so close that you were almost suffocating, but a different kind from before.

He came not long after you, his dick still inside spurting his cum inside you and keeping it in there with little intention of coming out any time soon. That pink glow had faded from before, fading away until there was nothing there and the slight pink tinge from before was gone too. His eyes drooped a bit, his blue irises that you hadn’t realized you had missed finally reappeared, his pupils returning to normal and his fangs retracting.

He hung his head in your neck and you felt his temperature drop a bit, no longer boiling hot. He refused to move his head from his spot though. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he was ashamed of what just happened.

After the both of you had a moment to catch your breaths, he removed himself from inside you, stalking off to find something to wear now that your outfit was completely ruined. He even had the decency to turn around while you changed, granted he had a hard time looking at you anyway.

“You’re gonna wanna deep clean that couch.” You said to break the silence. You were surprised you got a chuckle out of him.

“Yeah. I don’t normally do this sort of thing on there.” Another moment of silence passed between the two of you.

“You know, we can go back to my place and I can fix your nails. I can tell you’ve been biting at them.” He didn’t need to be told twice either. The place still stunk of sex and his head was feeling clearer than it had in days, he couldn’t stand to be there right now.

“About all of this…you won’t tell Buffy, right?” You giggled.

“Not if you don’t.” And that was more than enough for him.

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