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First post â
Thinking bt retired 141 all settling down in a nice suburban neighborhood. So nice, so peaceful. So different from what they're used to. So boring.
Then they meet you. The charming new neighbor with a pretty voice and an even prettier smile. They crowd around you like a pack of wolves aiming for their next meal. But you're nervous, antsy, and they can't have that, now can they? They back off, some more so than others, and instead, politely offer to help with your boxes.
They're well-behaved from then on. Truly willing to just be good, friendly neighbors. Until you're comfortable enough to let them bite.
Kyle takes the opportunity to bring you home-baked pie that he learned how to make a few nights before - he was always a quick learner. Johnny leaps to show you around town. A little too eager, so you decline, saying you still have some moving in to do. Oh, but he can help with that. Building furniture? A cinch. Mounting the television? Light work. Mowing your lawn? Only if you'll invite him in after for some lunch. Ghost lingers around, but occasionally, he'll tell a joke bad enough for you to giggle at, which makes him more okay, I guess.
John, however, he's biding his time. He doesn't want to throw himself into the fray like an uncouth schoolboy. He knows better than to just attach himself to the newest attraction. You never go on an amusement ride without getting a ticket. So he plans.
You leave your window curtains open as you prance around your newly-furnished home, all thanks to him and his boys. And John's just across the street. He can observe you whenever he pleases. What convenience. He can see you getting ready to go out. To the grocery store, he presumes, considering you haven't been going out much since you moved in two weeks ago.
He follows you from aisle to aisle, just out of your peripheral, a jar of peanut butter in hand so he doesn't look too out of place. As soon as he sees you struggling to reach a product - one of the last on a particularly high shelf - he swiftly positions himself behind you. Just enough for you to feel the heat of him.
"This what you wanted, love?" He grumbles out as he procures your item for you.
As you look up at him with such grateful eyes, he knows he and his boys won't be bored anymore.
#cod mw2#tf 141#tf 141 x reader#x reader#john soap mactavish#john soap mctavish x reader#john price#john price x reader#kyle gaz garrick#kyle gaz garrick x reader#simon ghost riley
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it's just plain knowledge - simon r.: your lover had a habit of bullying you. how could he not? he had grown up in such a way that he enjoyed pushing you to your sexual limit. he loved using his size and strength to his advantage.
"don't whimper, love. lemme tell ya all about the guns they let me use." his voice curled in your ear with his large hand on your hip. you knew you'd have to save some of your mental capacities to remember what simon was about to show you.
seated on his worn striped couch that was pressed up against the wall in the living room. in front of the both of you on the coffee table were various forms of weaponry. you weren't too sure how he even got those off base into your home. but he wasn't reaching for them, instead he had his hands on your plush hips, your pajama shorts were around your ankle with your panties as well.
you were seated on his cock, your back up against his back. he loomed over you as he gestured with his chin to the various items on the table.
"you know that rifle, right, dove? you've seen her before. you even held one of them when i took ya to base. the boys thought it was just sweet how someone so small, someone to sweet handled it. dangerous weapon."
you swallowed and felt him move you up and down his cock. you could feel the hammering in your chest at the feeling of his cock inside of you. the leap of want in your chest was hard to ignore while simon's cock nudged against all your sweet spots. it felt amazing, the tone he used didn't help either. it was patronizing, but in a way that made you run even hotter.
his voice cooing as he explained how the rifle worked, like you were just too sweet (read: too dumb) to understand how a piece of heavy weaponry could be used. he kissed the shell of your ear as he continued to fuck you with even more.
"you're so strong, right? but it's okay, you don't have to be so strong with me around. never want ya to use one of these." he said as he bounced you on his cock. his voice didn't waver and you felt him deep inside of you. like a throb in your skull, the pleasure he gave you only mounted the more he fucked you.
"si." you gasped.
"so sweet, my dove." he said lowly, "nothin' else like ya. never could be. now focus there, little one. i need to keep going over what's on the table." he took you by the jaw with his free hand and kept your eyes on the table as he continued to fuck up inside of you.
your pussy was soaked, gushed around him while he had his sweet fill of your achy sex. you felt amazing, the kind of amazing that every other man would beg for. he had seen the way some of the men looked at you when you came to visit him on the base.
cute of them to think that they could get with someone like you. but, if they tried to touch you. well, that wouldn't gain them any favours. no one touched what belonged to ghost. and that was an order.
"now, that's a glock seventeen, good in a pinch. can ya say that for me, dove? what's that called?"
"glock."
"glock what?"
"glock seventeen." your toes curled in your socks as the pleasure continued to mount in you. it was hard to focus, keep your gaze from rolling back into your head. your hands were on your knees as if it provided any support.
he held your cheeks in his rough hand. he was just so much bigger, stronger than anything you had ever know. your noises were sweet. short and angelic. it only drove simon to fuck you more.
he continued to talk as he felt you quiver on top of him. you swore you could hear his smile when he talked about the tools he used that he couldn't bring. the mortar, the two kinds of machines guns.
you soon tensed up, the pleasure reached its peak within you. you held onto your knees tightly as your cunt tightened around his cock.
"that's it, dove." he cooed, "that's it.' his pace remained unrelenting. your head felt dizzy as he made sure every inch of his hard cock stayed inside of you, "sweet little thing."
your felt weightless for a moment as he continued to fuck you. your brain felt like it was sparking and your core was heated from the intensity of your orgasm. soon simon finished inside of you, made sure every last drop was snug inside of you.
he patted your cheek roughly and your pussy fluttered around him. naughty little thing.
"dove."
you couldn't form words and instead slumped against your lover's chest as you tried to compose yourself.
simon sighed and mumble under his breath. followed by another firm pat on your cheek. it only made the wetness between your legs grow.
you soon ended up face first against the coffee table. not hard enough to bruise you, but your nose was incredibly close to
"now, dove." simon said in that low rumble of his voice, he held onto your hips once more and rubbed his softening cock up against your soaked pussy, "now that you're familiar with what i use at work. let's have ourselves a little quiz. you better have been listenin', because i'd hate to punish ya for any wrong answers." <3
a/n: expect more of call of duty posting.... my (future husband) partner is in the canadian army....
#bunny writes#reader insert#call of duty smut#call of duty#call of duty x reader#simon ghost riley#simon ghost riley x reader#simon ghost x reader#simon ghost smut#simon ghost x you#simon ghost riley smut#cod#cod mw2#ghost call of duty#simon riley#simon ghost riley fanfiction#simon riley smut#simon riley x reader#ghost x reader#ghost cod#ghost smut
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Dorian (calling his spectal, ancestral, awesome, bonded mount): "Do you want to be a... mounted fighter?" Orym (looking absolutely smitten): "It's hard to pass up." And gives him a kiss as he's helped up into the saddle, even though he's got a 6-foot vertical leap and totally doesn't need it, but it's hard to pass up this display of chivalry, too.
Orym and Dorian are like that adorable teenage couple in Year Nine who are stealing the sweetest kisses in five minute breaks and pretend that nobody sees them.
#bells hells#critical role fanart#critical role spoilers#procreate art#orym of the air ashari#dorian storm#orym#digital watercolor#jenny dolfen#critical role#dorym#coriolis
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This is off topic but the switch direct featured a game called Disney villains cursed café, and it got me thinking, what if Yuu ran a café in twst
I saw the trailer myself and instantly thought of Twst! đ
Maybe Yuu wouldnât be able to have their own cafĂ© (lack of capital for startup), but they could be the Mostro Loungeâs barista or something? They have what appears to be a bar-like area:
It could be considered a part-time job to supplement the monthly allowance Crowley gives Yuu! Itâd also be a good way for them to spread the Magic of Friendship and interact with the student body way more than what is shown in the main story.
If that part-time job goes well and Yuu enjoys it, maybe it could be a viable career path for them once they graduate NRC (assuming they don't find a way back to their world)? With a degree from a prestigious arcane academy + connections built by then, Yuu could surely net some financial backers and set up shop in Foothill Town (or even on NRC campus!). They could even have drinks and sweets themed after the dorms of inspired by their classmates. Since a lot of the expendable items in Twst gameplay are edible, it would also be so cool if Yuu recreated them for their business. Friendship Popcorn, Leaping Macarons, Rich Card Cookies, Limelight Waffles, Lucky Cupcakes, Starshards, Friendship Tea, Secret Snacks, breads drizzled with Blooming Honey, etc. It sounds like the beginning of a cozy fantasy novel www
In Disney Villains Cursed Café because I want to talk about how silly it is, you play the part of a "potionista" and serve magical brews to various Disney villains in a modern setting. Your choices will influence the villains' ambitions and result in different things happening in their storylines! Some stories teased include:
Gaston attempting to impress his golfing buddies
Hook wanting to be the star of a community theater production
Maleficent seeking to dominate on social media
Ursula becoming a reality TV sensation
The art style is very stylish, and I'm always a sucker for games involving food and fairy tale motifs đ€Ą
Some customers you'll meet include Ursula, Gaston, Jafar, Captain Hook. Cruelle De Vil, and Maleficent (in casual wear!). asdbasoydasd The Mistress of Evil using her staff as a selfie stick in the promo art makes me laugh a little đ
Gaston looking preppy and athletic is also super fitting, but Jafar looks so different in a hat and suit that I had to do a double-take when I first saw him.
If you pay close attention, you'll also find Easter eggs in the decor and background! For example, Flotsam and Jetsam are in a glass container on the left of your counter, and the Magic Mirror seems to be mounted on the right. You'll find customers seated at tables and enjoying their drinks (JAFAR WHY ARE YOU HUNCHED OVER LIKE THAT... I also spot what seems to be the Evil Queen in one screenshot?)
Yzma also makes an appearance; apparently, she helps you with ingredients upgrades to make even more powerful potions.
THIS IS SO SILLY... My brain is just superimposing the NRC boys in these scenarios and that magnifies the silliness đ
Ursula's "I went to the beach today and NO ONE wanted to make a deal with me" gives Azul being dramatic on an NRC school beach trip energy OTL Maleficent wanting to be a social media influencer is so ironic given that Malleus doesn't know how tf to use technology and regularly breaks phones... Vargas going on a golfing trip... Crewel wanting a hot brew to take the edge off of dealing with unruly pups all day... TWEELS CRAMMED INTO A JAR FOR THE AESTHETIC... Paparazzi trying to sneak a photo of Vil at a café... Jamil being a chuuni by declaring his drink teleports him to a powerful lamp, only to reappear a yard away under a ceiling fixture lamp... This just SCREAMS of the NRC students/staff terrorizing a local business/j Not me hoping that fan artists do crossover art/art inspired by interactions in this game...
#disney twst#disney twisted wonderland#twst#twisted wonderland#notes from the writing raven#Yuu#Dire Crowley#disney villains cursed cafe#Ursula#Jafar#Evil Queen#Yzma#Captain Hook#Maleficent#Gaston#Cruella De Vil#Flotsam#Jetsam#Magic Mirror#Azul Ashengrotto#Malleus Draconia#Divus Crewel#Ashton Vargas#Vil Schoenheit#Jamil Viper#Jade Leech#Floyd Leech#Tweels#Octavinelle#disney villains cursed café
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Dont mess with our daughter
Wrath of the Fentons
Jason Todd had seen a lot of weird things in Gotham. Lazarus pits, immortal assassins, fear gas-induced nightmaresâhell, he'd been one of the weird things, once upon a time. But watching a bunch of black-market meta traffickers haul a very pissed-off redhead into an unmarked van in broad daylight was quickly climbing the ranks of what the fuck moments.
She wasn't screaming. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Most metasâor normal peopleâwould be terrified. Instead, this girl looked annoyed.
Jason had been tracking this particular ring for weeks. They specialized in kidnapping metas with "unique features"âhorns, glowing eyes, animal traits, things that marked them as different. The bastards made a killing selling them off to the highest bidder.
The girlâJazz, he caught one of the thugs sayingâfit their usual type. Her hands, bound behind her, had faint green veins pulsing under her skin, as if something otherworldly coursed through her. Her eyes flickered a ghostly green before settling back into a sharp, human blue.
Jason knew that look. It was the look someone got when they were waiting.
For what? Backup? Did she have a tracker? A hidden weapon?
He was about to interfere when Jazz sighed dramatically and muttered, "You poor, poor idiots."
Jason didn't have time to wonder what she meant before his comms flared to life with a frantic Oracle.
"Red Hood, stand downâI repeat, do not engageâthe girl's parents are en route, andâholy shitâthese guys have no idea what they just did."
Jason frowned. "Parents? Whoâ"
And then he saw the tank.
It barreled down the street, mounted with weapons that absolutely should not be street legal, glowing green with ominous energy. The side of the vehicle had a logo painted in jagged white letters:
FENTON WORKS
The doors flew open, and a massive man in an orange jumpsuit leaped out, wielding what could only be described as an anti-aircraft cannon converted into a rifle. His wife followed, a visor covering her eyes, her sleek blue bodysuit glowing with strange symbols.
"JAZZ!" the man bellowed, aiming the cannon at the traffickers as if they were just another ghost to blast into oblivion.
"Hey, Dad!" Jazz called, still completely unbothered as one of the thugs tried to hold a knife to her throat. "You might want to be careful. They think I'm a meta."
"Oh, honey," her mom said, pulling out a gun that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi horror movie. "They won't be thinking anything in a few minutes."
Jason took a slow step back.
He'd seen Bruce handle hostage situations with surgical precision. He'd seen Dick talk down armed criminals with nothing but charm and a smile.
He had never seen two civilians go full scorched earth on a meta trafficking ring without so much as a plan beyond "rescue daughter, destroy everything."
The traffickers barely had time to react before green energy blasts tore through their van, their weapons, and the street around them. The sheer destructive enthusiasm was a sight to behold.
One thug made the mistake of aiming a gun at Maddie Fenton. She shot him with a glowing net that phased through his skin before electrifying him into unconsciousness. Another tried to runâJack Fenton threw what looked like a modified bear trap, which snapped shut around the guyâs legs and dragged him back, screaming.
Jazz, still tied up, sighed as one guy tried to use her as a human shield. "You do realize that you're standing between me and them, right?"
The thug barely had time to consider his life choices before Maddie calmly shot him in the leg.
Jason, crouched on a nearby rooftop, slowly exhaled.
Well. The ring was definitely out of commission.
As the Fentons loaded the unconscious criminals into their highly illegal ghost-proof containment units, Jazz finally noticed Jason watching. She arched a brow.
"Hey, Red Hood, right?"
Jason, still processing, just nodded.
Jazz smirked. "You look like you're having a what the fuck moment."
Jason stared at the still-smoking wreckage of what used to be a human trafficking operation and then at the grinning, trigger-happy Fenton parents.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that about sums it up."
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TW: NSFW, dubcon/noncon, slave darling, crude and derogatory terms, classism, abuse of power, death threats
fem reader

Thinking about the poor kitchen maid who's suddenly told she's to be the spoiled Prince's new chambermaid.
It hasnât even gone a day yet, but you already miss your job in the kitchens.
Sure, the sweltering heat of the ovens always left you in a state of fever, and kneading dough from dawn âtil dusk made your arms acidic with burns â unyieldingly sore â not to mention never getting a chance to sit down and rest before collapsing in bed at the end of the day. But the smell of freshly baked buns and the chance to sneak a bite out of those that came out of the oven just a bit too burnt for serving had always felt like payment enough.
That and not having to deal with the royal family.
You know you should feel honored. You know itâs supposed to feel godsend to be picked to become the Princeâs personal servant. But⊠there was a reason he so often required a change of maid.
You still remember the last one theyâd taken from the kitchen. She was pretty and young and shouldnât have been working there in the first place â thatâs what everyone used to say before she disappeared.
You wonder if such words carry curses⊠and what you did to deserve the same things being said about you.
You nearly cried standing outside The Princeâs chambers, chewing on your lip with his breakfast tray in hand, wondering what rumors were true â if he really was as terrible as everyone claims â wondering where the other kitchen maid went and whether youâd end up in the same placeâŠÂ wondering what you could do to keep it from happening.
You donât know what you were standing there waiting for, nearly pissing yourself when you knew he was still out â busy hunting down a couple of runaway servants for sport. It was almost as though you feared the room itself, as though it would bite once crossing the threshold.Â
None of the sorts happened, though a gust of warm wind hit you like the breath of a beast once you opened the door.
Inside, there were around a dozen heads mounted on the wall â dragons, bears, lions, wolves, and other creatures you werenât too sure of â all with mouths big enough to bite yours off.
You took only a second to look at them before they looked as though theyâd leap from the walls and eat you alive, just like youâd predicted.
You set the tray of food down on the bedside table and walked to the bathroom to draw his bath â deciding work would keep your mind off it.
Stepping out a second later, you fixed a fire in the hearth and made to make the bed, stretching the duvet and the quilt over the massive mattress while eyeing the thread count with envy and the hand-stitching with awe. Left to wonder how many ducks had been shot to stuff the mountain of plush pillows heâd all but thrown onto the floor to make space for himself.
Walking through the steam to the bath again, you opened the cupboard to pick out soaps and oils â overwhelmed by the sight of every shelf stocked full of all sorts youâd never seen â glad you had somewhat decent reading skills â unlike many of the other maids.
Soaping the water, you sat on the edge and waited with a hand wading through the warmth â and while biting your lip, you let your mind wander again â daydream, like it so often did â imagining what it would be like to feel it on the rest of your skin, warm and smooth, sucking all the stress out and leaving you soft like a newborn.
He watched you enjoy yourself, his stark eyes calmly assessing what they saw with a tilt of his head â trailing from the tip of your worn-out shoes to the tattered edge of your grey maidâs dress, up your lap to the cinch of your waist where your white apron was bound â taking his time until your eyes fluttered open to find him standing there.
You nearly fell into the water, hopping up to a stance. âSorry, your majesty- I forgot myself! Please forgive me.â You bowed, looking down at the muddy stains on your gray shoes â in anxious wait of his wrath.
But instead of a backhanded slap that would send you straight to the stone floor or a spit of venom which would make you flinch and cry, he spoke a calm and patient âCome here-â
Though spoken in a certain tone of authority that forced you forward in quick steps until stopping just short of him â still with eyes downcast.
âMh, I'm glad they haven't run out of cute ones down there.â He said then, once you stood only a hair's length from him â voice just as calm as before and inspiring just as much surprise in you still, though now joined with visible confusion in the crinkle it caused between your brows. A furrow that only deepened once he reached out his hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
âYour majesty?â You questioned.
âItâs master.â He corrected sharply, and you grew unsure if his voice wasnât just cold rather than calm. âI like that better. Now quit wasting my time and undress me, slave â I have important shit to attend to today.â
You wavered only a second, feeling the words like a flick to the forehead. âOf course, your majes-Â master. Forgive me.â You blurted with hands quickly jumping forth to help detangle the knots keeping his robes together.Â
Small fingers working hurriedly to appease him, setting aside the light leather cuirass upon his dresser once loosening it from his torso â wondering if you should tell him your name, though thinking better of it as heâd opted for simply referring to you as a slave instead of asking.Â
You hadnât been called that in a long while â slave â never by anyone in the kitchen, at least. Youâd nearly forgotten it was what you were â a slave â and not just a busy member of the crownâs staff.
You bit your lip with another bow of your head, not wanting the Prince to see your face in its hurt while you undid the ties to the braces on his arms. The castle had become your home rather than a prison over the years, but⊠with the echo of your title wringing in that very heavy tone of his, along with standing there â bowing your head while undressing him of all fine body armor and robes â you couldnât suppress the reminder of being of much lesser blood and birth. A fact that â despite never before having bothered you much â somehow seemed to strangle you now.
Heâd dragged mud in with his boots â and given heâd not bothered taking them off, you were left to believe he wanted you to do it for him. And though humiliating as it was, you crouched down and began undoing the laces nonetheless â further feeling degraded while caressing the boot.
You pulled it off and repeated the action with the other foot â wondering if he meant you to remove his breeches and tunic as well until he, fortunately for you, lifted the shirt off and pulled the strings to the trousers himself. Leaving the undergarments in a pool on the floor next to you.
You kept your eyes down until he was completely submerged in the water, afraid to see something you werenât allowed to â before getting up and padding back to the cupboard. You'd never been any lady's or lord's maid before, but you had been trained in the duties â and though heat rose to your cheeks at the thought of those duties, you still made to grab the soap and loofa in shakey hands before kneeling down on the stool next to the tub.
Youâd never seen the prince if not from afar atop the castle balcony during speeches by his mother, the Queen â and had only ever heard of his appearance as something twisted and foul â but looking at him with his eyes closed, he really didnât look as demonic as people had made him out to be. But further thinking about it, scrubbing his chest with soap and water and oil â you realized that none of those people were likely to have seen him up close either.
He looks every bit royal with his strength of face â cutting edges as though carved in marble, with chiseled muscles gleaming in the water and oil.
He was no doubt very handsome, you concluded silently â finally understanding why he was more of an eligible prince than what his attitude would otherwise allow â that, along with the kingdomâs riches, of course.
He sagged forward while you mindlessly amused your findings â though paying attention enough to take the cue â squeezing water onto his back with the sponge before rubbing over the broad flex of muscles, freezing once hearing him let out a heavy moan.
He leaned back again after you were done. Spilling water onto your dress once pulling his arms out to rest on the frame with a sigh â his chin tipped upward, lounging lazily on the back of the tub.
You reached for his face next â now with a silken cloth â stroking it lightly over the few droplets of blood splattered from when he must have cut into those poor runaways after hunting them down with swords and dogs in heel.
You shuddered some at the thought and must have let your eyes linger too long â or at least long enough not to notice him opening his â staring at you silently with eyes jaded in something that seemed to seize you by the throat.
âIâm sorry, ma-â You tried, but he seemed disinterested in it, reaching for you with wet fingers rubbing on the hem of your collar.
âYouâre not dressed properly.â He said then, voice lazy yet loud â unimpressed, though not enough to be outright angry.
Gulping at the feel of his large hand so close to your neck, your voice only barely held it together. âIâm sorry, master. They hadnât the right maid livery in my size, but Iâll have it ready tomo-â You started, hands folded neatly on your lap.
âTake it off.â He interrupted.
You blinked â tensing with your throat closing â sitting there stunned for a moment before mustering an ever so hesitant answer.
âYour majesty?â
âItâs master. Donât make me tell you again, slave." He growled through grit teeth right at your face after yanking you close by the fabric of your shirt. "And you either dress properly, or you go naked. And right now, it looks like itâll be the latter. Unless you want to be whipped for poor servitude?â
Your eyes â moon-big now while you shook your head â breathing thin through your nose. âNo, master... Iâll undress.â
âGood.â He broke off your collar, dropping you back down onto your seat on the floor before rising with water rushing fast and heavy down along his limbs, dripping onto you as he stepped out with an unfettered splash.
You got up as well, beginning with the buttons on your shirt. Feeling him eye you while he wrapped himself in the towel youâd laid ready for him â his burning gaze leaving you goosefleshed and nearly in tears, bashful as you stepped out of your skirt â naked before him.
You didnât dare look â even as he stepped toward you. Keeping your head bowed low â breath in shivers while eyeing the hand he reached for you, his fingers stopping just short of touching your bare skin.
âClean yourself.â He said then, wafting the same hand to the tub heâd just used. Still filled with bubbles of lavender, though no doubt also of his own grime. But you wouldnât refuse, no matter the degradation â your thoughts still lingering on the former kitchenmaid whoâd disappeared not long after becoming the Prince's personal servant.
You stepped in, feeling the warmth close around your legs â still hot enough to prickle. Lowering yourself down, you sat there â swallowed by the bubbles with the loofa in hand, lathering your flesh with the mix of oil, soap, and water â brushing off soot and sweat â leaving you soft-skinned and smooth to the touch, but also riddled with goosebumps that wouldn't lower under the heavy leer the Prince was giving you.
âGet out and come here.â He said a short moment later, and you got out as told â taking slow steps toward the man, with footprints leaving soapy puddles in their wake.
He reached behind you to pull the pin from your worker's bun, letting your hair cascade in flowy wisps down around your shoulders â before brushing them behind you to clear your face and chest.
Heâd dried off but didnât offer you the towel â having dropped it into a wet pile on the floor â now reaching out to feel the smooth gloss of your breasts with brazen digits. Inspecting and assessing while caressing their weight as you stood there with your head still hung down low â silent and shivering.
Soon his hands fell from your chest down to judge your every curve, sliding over slippery slopes until reaching your cunt â stroking two thick fingers through the drippy curls found there. Gliding them between the lips, he circled your clit with his middle digit â tickling you â while dark eyes watched your lip quiver with a power-hungry gleam.
Stepping closer, the small smirk stretched on his face brushed your hairline where you tried bowing your head even lower in embarrassment â with brows tremoring similar to the hands hanging loosely by your sides.
âArenât you gonna bleat like a little lamb? Hmm... slave?â He asked then â low in a whisper, blowing gently into the sweat of your hair â cold enough to make you shiver even more. âThe slut before you didâŠ.â He added with his smirk sharpening â lips stiffening against your skin where he brushed them in halfhearted kisses down your forehead and temple until reaching the shell of your ear. âI had to wring her little neck just to make her stop squealing.â
You sucked your teeth on impulse, jolting just a bit but not enough to make the dire mistake of moving.Â
âI can tell youâre smarter. Thatâs goodâŠ.â He continued with fingers kept at your cunt â playing your shivering core where you stood planted â dripping wet with bathwater and terrified of moving. âWeak little things like you do better understanding their place.â
Your hands formed loose fists, flinching at your sides as you kept from the urge to wring your thighs shut until he left your sensitivity alone.
âBut smart or not, I believe you missed a spot earlier-â Both his hands found your hair instead. âSo get down on your knees, slave.âÂ
One paw cupped the back of your skull in a ponytail while the other laid flat on your scalp, pushing you down until he had you leveled with his throbbing manhood â thick and high-strung â blushed red and strangled with veins â bobbing with might against the ant trail leading up to his navel and looking every bit impatient to be served.Â
âUse this pretty head of yours to do better, and maybe I won't have to wring your little neck too.â
You eyed the swaying length with eyes crossing â sucking your lip at its intimidating reach and how it seemed to rise higher than your head â mumbling out a weak. âYes, master...â
You dropped your jaw and produced your tongue â feeling him keep control of your head in his tightening hold, yanking your hair before you gave the large cock a flat lick â starting at the base of his balls until flicking off at the very tip.
Not too revolted by the mild taste of lavender and vegetable oil, you locked your lips around the head and sucked it in hopes heâd ease his grip.
âSh-fuuhck- you really do know your place, huh slave?â He mouthed â his head hanging back in a heavy groan â holding your skull in both hands while using them to bob you against his crotch on repeat, lolling his hips inside the wet warm comfort of your mouth a little deeper for each time â only moaning with a laugh once you gave a whine for breath. âSweet and obedient- just how I like- with a nice wet throat to fuck tooâŠ.â
He thought of kicking you when you put your small hands against his thighs to brace yourself â but given how softly you held them there without nails and pinches, he decided heâd grant you the tiny mercy â thinking heâd later teach you to keep your hands on your knees when serving him head like a proper slave ought to.
Tipping his head back again, he looked down at you and the pretty curl between your brows and the cute sight of your teary eyes looking back up at him â giving a hiss at how it made his balls tug in excitement.
âGet up-â He growled, pulling you up by your hair and throat until you shoddily stood upright on unsteady feet â lightheadedly looking at him with dazed eyes and a wet pout. ââThis tight cunt as loyal to the crown as your mouth, hm?â He asked with a hand smacking the soft place, making you yelp before he made to bury two of his thick fingers inside the taunt space.
You whined out softly at the intrusion â kept steady and close by the fist holding your throat in a choke â before he used the same hand to throw you over the bed â stomach first with a slap to your ass.
âBow down, slave- and show me some fucking respect. Youâre in the presence of royalty, remember?â
He mounted you with a pent-up groan â and a strong fist in your hair, pushing your face down into the mount of pillows youâd dallied with earlier. His knees dipped into the plush next to your hips, locking you beneath him with his spit-slickened meat resting between the soft valley of your ass, sliding between the cheeks impatiently.
Gathering your wrists in his other fist, he kept them crossed at the small of your spine â before pulling back and letting his cockhead fall right to your sweetly wet and welcoming opening â wasting little time in piercing it nice and deep in a direct aim â like an arrow shot straight through a target.
You winced and bucked your hips at the attack â feeling your walls weep and sting â fluttering hot around the size of it.
He leaned across your back â heavy against your shoulders with his mouth at your ear in gritty whispers. âI like docile slave girls like you who know a thing or two about pleasing a man. Good submissive sluts who understand theyâre nothing but warm soft meat for men like me to devour.âÂ
His words groaned in nibbling bites on your earlobe â with a hand kept strict and harsh in yanking your head back for him as he slowly started dragging himself out and stuffing you so fast you couldnât keep from yelping at the breach. Toes gripping the cold rocky tiles as your legs shook under you â being rocked into harsh and deep by the muscle strength of the beast on top.
âI'm not the first one youâve bent over for, huh?â He continued with a grin, haughtily chuckling in low breathy condescension. âProbably the first one youâve had take you in a proper bed, though, hm? And not in a hayloft on whatever dirty farm you grew up on.âÂ
Your fingernails punched into your palms where he wrung your wrists tight, keeping you pressed flat beneath him while he heedlessly rutted into you like you were nothing but his own snug fist.Â
âI bet the whole village had a go seeing how pretty you turned out.â He laughed again, scoffing at it with his tongue tickling your ear. âDid they all fuck you like this? From behind like a farm animal? On all fours with your pretty face moaning in the mud?â Simpering, he sped up as though aroused by his own words.
Twisting your hair tighter and groaning louder against your ear â chasing your deepest parts with balls clapping hard against your clit.
âYouâre all fuckin'Â inbreds- Itâs a fucking miracle your filthy parents created something like you-Â prettier than all the bratty princesses I have to listen to yap all day.â He moaned â now fully drooling against your face, nomming on your ear with heavy breaths.
Fully draping you in his sweaty muscles, you lay gasping beneath the weight â cunt clenching hard around his shaft â making him hiss.
âAh fuck- It's nice coming home to an obedient slave- so tight and warm- grateful for a royal cock in your poor slave cunt, huh?â
You winced at his pounding, so deep you felt it choke you â making your stomach fold and curl, trying to protect itself from the assault. âYes- thank you, master- thank you-â You cried while he placed sloppy layers of wet kisses down your temple and cheek in return â until finally pulling off.
âCome here, down on your knees-â Ripping himself to his feet, he pulled you with him by the fist riddled in your hair and pushed you down at the foot end.Â
Tugging on his cock in the other hand â quick faps in the slick â he kept you looking up at him while slapping the wet weight in sticky taps against your lips.Â
âOpen wide, slave- here it comes-âÂ
Only one more jerk and it all blew in thick white beams shooting across your face â spewing in clusters, hitting you once on your forehead and another over the nose - dripping to your lips into your gaping mouth where he focused on squeezing out the rest â tapping the plush creamy tip against your tongue while panting.Â
âMh-fuck- clean me off and swallow.â
With breaths heavy and slowing, he detangled his hand from your sweaty locks and made to pet your head instead. Gently running his fingers over your hair while watching you obediently kiss and lick up all the spill in tired and slow yet devoted strokes with your tongue until it was all prettily wiped clean.
âGood slave.â The Crown Prince hummed then.
Finally sounding satisfied â still with a lazy hand holding your head where you so faithfully sat at his feet, swallowing his seed, while his satiated cock grew limp in regard.
âNow go wash off while the waterâs still warm, and come out and help me get dressed.â He ordered, voice groggily soft in the after high. âI have a full schedule today looking at potential brides⊠and I want my little farm animal by my side to keep me going insane from boredom.â

BNHA â Bakugou, Dabi
JJK â Sukuna, Gojo, Naoya
HQ â Oikawa, Sakusa
BLLK â Reo
DS â Doma, Muzan, Sanemi
#yandere x reader#yandere#yandere x you#yandere imagines#yandere smut#yancore#jujutsu kaisen smut#jujustu kaisen#jujutsu kaisen#yandere jujutsu kaisen#yandere jjk#jjk smut#bnha smut#yandere bnha#mha smut#my hero smut#yandere csm#yandere aot
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Jacaerys Velaryon - Innocence and Inexperience
Summary -Â An arranged marriage leads to a night of tender intimacy and raw emotion. Amid the echoes of crude remarks, Jace and his bride navigate their first night together with vulnerability and newfound connection, transforming their union into one of genuine love and trust.
Pairing -Â Jacaerys Velaryon x Lannister reader
Warnings -Â Sexual content (smut)
Word count - 2204
Masterlist for Jacaerys âą House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

It all began with a betrothal, an arrangement that, though unexpected, held particular weight. To my surprise, my match was with someone close to my age, someone who was destined to inherit the Iron Throne.
As I sat beside Jace, trying to steady my nerves, I sipped cautiously from my cup. My brothers, Jason and Tyland, had orchestrated this match with great zeal, and for the first time in memory, they seemed to find common ground in their shared purpose.Â
The evening wore on, and the atmosphere grew increasingly raucous. Aegon, ever the embodiment of reckless abandon, was already significantly inebriated by the time he began his probing inquiries.Â
His words slurred as he leaned closer, the wine in his cup sloshing dangerously over the rim.
"Do tell me, nephew," Aegon began, his voice tinged with a drunken bravado.Â
"You do know where to place your cock and such, right?" His question was crude and unbidden, and I could feel the colour drain from my face.Â
My eyes darted toward Jace, who was gripping the edge of the dinner table so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His jaw was set in a tight line, a clear sign of his mounting fury.
Aegon's gaze shifted between us, his smirk widening with each passing moment.Â
"If not, I'd be more than happy to show you," he continued, his words dripping with contempt. "Perhaps I could be your teacher and take your betrothed to bed first, just to show you how it's done."
The insult was sharp and uncalled for.Â
Jace's patience snapped as his hand crashed down onto the table, causing the silverware to clatter and my heart to leap. I flinched, the sound echoing in the tense silence that followed.
"You can play the jester if you like," Jace's voice was low and dangerously calm, "but hold your tongue before my betrothed." His words were laced with a venom that made the room's temperature seem to drop.
Aegon's laughter erupted, harsh and mocking.Â
"Oh, come now, nephew," he jeered, leaning back in his chair with a sneer. "What's the matter? Afraid I'll show you up? You seem a bit too sensitive about your lady's honour."
Jace's face reddened with fury, and he leaned forward, his eyes blazing. "This isn't a jest, Aegon. This is a matter of respect. I won't stand for you demeaning her or trying to provoke me with your vile comments."
Aegon's smirk never faltered, but his tone grew more taunting. "Respect? From you? You're hardly in a position to lecture me on decorum, nephew."
The comment struck a nerve. Jace's hand tightened into a fist, and he took a deep breath, struggling to maintain his composure. "That doesn't give you the right to belittle me or my future wife. If you think your drunken bravado will make me back down, you're sorely mistaken."
At this point, I could no longer bear the rising tension. Leaning closer to Jace, I whispered softly, "It's not worth it. Please, let it go."
Jace's gaze, which had been locked in a cold stare at Aegon, softened slightly as he turned his attention to me. His anger was still evident, but the reminder of the bigger picture seemed to pull him back from the brink.
Aegon, noticing the shift in Jace's demeanour, let out a derisive chuckle.Â
"Ah, look at that," he taunted, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "The lioness has managed to calm the beast. How quaint."
Jace's eyes remained fixed on me, but the tension in his shoulders eased, his fury remained barely contained. The confrontation had cooled, but the underlying discord was far from resolved.
âââ âŠâ
âĄâ
⊠âââ
Our wedding was a spectacle of grandeur. The king had spared no expense to ensure that every detail was perfect. From the decorations to the feast, the event was a testament to wealth and status.Â
Now, as the day drew to a close and the festivities had finally quieted, the time had come for our wedding night.
In the privacy of our chambers, Jace and I sat together on the edge of the bed, our eyes meeting with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the pomp of the day.
Jace leaned forward with deliberate care, his every movement speaking of patience that contrasted sharply with the chaos of the day. His fingers, gentle as a summer breeze, brushed a stray lock of hair from my face.Â
The touch was feather-light, an intimate gesture that seemed to draw us closer in a world suddenly reduced to the space between us.
His fingers lingered briefly against my skin before he leaned in to place a soft, lingering kiss on my lips. The kiss was gentle, and though his movements were calm and composed, my heart raced in response to the intimacy and the gravity of the moment.
"I will take it slow, I promise," he murmured against my lips, his voice a soothing balm to my frayed nerves.Â
I could feel the sincerity in his words, but the rapid thudding of my heart seemed deafening in the quiet of the room. I worried he could hear it, each beat a reminder of my apprehension.
Jace pulled back slightly, his forehead resting against mine.Â
"Do not worry about my uncle's words," he continued softly, his eyes searching mine for reassurance. "Pay them no heed."
I nodded, though the memory of Aegon's crude remarks lingered like a shadow over the evening. His taunts had stung, and the weight of his disrespect had cast a pall over what should have been a night of unmitigated joy.Â
Yet, as I looked into Jace's eyes, I found a comfort that helped to dispel my fears.
Jace's fingers moved with deliberate care as he began to undo the laces of my wedding dress. The task proved more complex than anticipated, and he struggled slightly with the intricate knots. I reached out to assist him, our hands working together to free me from the elaborate garment.Â
With each lace undone, the tension of the day seemed to ease a little more.
As the final laces slipped between our fingers, Jace removed his clothing with equal deliberation, leaving us both naked and exposed to one another in a vulnerable and intimate moment.Â
He paused to look at me, his eyes roaming over my body with a mixture of awe and tenderness.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and filled with admiration. A warm blush crept across my cheeks, stirred by the sincerity in his words.
Gently, he laid me back on the bed, his lips brushing softly against mine. His hands roamed tenderly down my arms, interlacing our fingers in a gesture of unity and affection. The contact was both soothing and reassuring, grounding us in this intimate moment.
"Are you ready?" he asked, his voice a soft tremor of concern. I nodded in response, unable to find words, my throat tight with a mixture of anticipation and trepidation.
Jace's movements were slow and careful as he began to enter me. A sharp pain shot through me, and I let out a low hiss. The sensation was intense, a reminder of the newness of this experience.Â
Jace's eyes flickered with concern, and he paused, his face a portrait of empathy and restraint.
"I've heard it can be painful at first," he said, his voice a low murmur as if he were trying to soothe both of us. "I'll let you adjust."
He remained still, allowing me time to acclimate to the sensation. His hands were tender and supportive, a constant comfort in the midst of the discomfort. The pain gradually began to ebb, replaced by a growing sense of connection and intimacy.
"I'm okay," I whispered, my voice trembling slightly but filled with reassurance.
Jace's expression softened with relief and tenderness. He resumed his movements, his thrusts slow and measured. Each motion was gentle, a deliberate act of intimacy designed to honour our connection and ensure my comfort. His rhythm was steady, his focus entirely on making the experience as meaningful and gentle as possible.
He kept his movements slow, giving me time to adjust with each gentle thrust. His hands stayed close, his touch a constant source of reassurance.
"You're doing so well," he murmured, his voice filled with quiet admiration. His encouragement was a balm, helping me to relax and fully engage with the moment.
As my comfort increased, a surge of urgency and desire overcame me. "Jace, go faster," I encouraged, my grip tightening on the sheets beneath me.Â
Our connection intensified with each movement, and I found myself craving more, caught between the steady reassurance of his loving approach and the primal instincts of the human body.
Jace responded to my request with a deep, guttural groan that resonated through the room.Â
His movements quickened, the rhythm of his thrusts becoming more urgent and insistent. Each push was driven by a growing need, his focus shifting to match the heightened intensity of the moment.
"Seven hells," I breathed, overwhelmed by the sensation as my back arched upwards to meet him.Â
The increased pace intensified the experience, deepening the connection between us. Pleasure surged rapidly, merging with the urgency of our shared passion.
Jace's eyes darkened with a primal intensity as he gazed down at me. The sight of me beneath him, my body trembling and glistening with a sheen of sweat, seemed to ignite something deeper within him.Â
The way my breasts bounced with each of his movements, their rhythmic motion emphasizing the intensity of our union, drove him to new heights of desire.Â
The slickness of my skin, catching the dim light and reflecting his fervour, only heightened his arousal.
His grip on my hips tightened, his fingers pressing into my skin as his thrusts became more forceful and fervent.
As his urgency grew, so did the intensity of each thrust, and the line between pleasure and pain began to blur. Each thrust drove him deeper inside me, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as he watched my body quiver beneath him
"Jace," I gasped, my voice strained as the force of his movements became overwhelming.
He was lost in the moment, his need for me consuming him. His thrusts grew harder, more insistent, and a sharp pain shot through me.Â
I cried out, the sound a mix of pleasure and distress.
Tears began to leak from the corners of my eyes, the emotional and physical intensity combining in a way that left me breathless and exposed.
Jace immediately noticed the tears, his face shifting to one of alarm and concern. He halted, his breath coming in short, anxious bursts.Â
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice laced with worry. "Did I hurt you?"
I met his concerned gaze, striving to reassure him despite the tears still glistening in my eyes. "I'm fine," I said, my voice trembling but earnest. "It's just... a lot. But I'm okay, really."Â
Jace's expression remained troubled, his eyes scanning my face for any sign of distress. He continued to hold me close, his movements slowing as he sought to comfort me.
"I didn't mean to push you too much," he said, his voice filled with genuine regret. "I apologise if I hurt you."
I reached up and placed a soothing hand on his cheek, offering a comforting smile.Â
"It's not your fault," I assured him softly. "It's just that it's so intense. But it's okay. We have all night, and we can go at whatever pace we need."
His eyes softened with relief, and he nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing. He resumed his movements with a more mindful rhythm, his touch gentle and careful. The room was filled with a renewed sense of intimacy and understanding as we adjusted our pace.
As Jace's thrusts grew more attuned to our shared rhythm, the intensity of our connection heightened. With each movement, the pleasure between us built to a crescendo. Our bodies moved together, synchronized in a growing wave of sensation.
Finally, the buildup of pleasure reached its peak. I felt a shuddering release, a wave of intense sensation that made me gasp. My body arched, and I cried out softly, tears mixing with the overwhelming feelings.
Jace followed suit, his breath quickening and his movements becoming more urgent. He let out a deep groan as he reached his climax, his body trembling as he finally found release.
As I lay there, breathless and teary-eyed, Jace's gaze fell on the glistening tears that streaked my flushed cheeks. His thumb, moving with the tenderness of a whispered apology, gently brushed them away.Â
"I apologise" he murmured, his voice filled with genuine regret. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
I gently squeezed his hand, looking into his eyes with a reassuring gaze. "Don't worry," I whispered softly. "It was intense, but I'm alright"
Jace's expression softened with relief, and he pulled me close, his arms wrapping around me in a comforting embrace. We lay together, the warmth of his body against mine a soothing presence.
"I'm here," he murmured, his voice gentle and reassuring.Â
I nestled closer to him, finding comfort in his embrace. "I know," I whispered.Â
We held each other, the intensity of the moment giving way to a deeper sense of connection. The night stretched ahead of us, and we took our time to savour the closeness and understanding we had found together.
A/n -Â Something soft and sweet, editing this and I realised it's unintentionally a part 2 for 'The Lioness's Webs'Â <3Â
#house of the dragon#house targaryen#hotd#hotd x reader#house of the dragon x reader#hotd one shot#hotd season 2#house of the dragon fanfiction#hotd fanfic#jacaerys targaryen#jacaerys velaryon#jacaerys x reader#jacaerys velaryon x reader#team black#prince jacaerys#jace x reader#hotd jacaerys#jacaerys strong
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Hey! I love your Cregan ficsđ is it okay if i ask for another fluff Cregan fic?đđ i just can't get enough of Cregan fluff
Poison Berries
Who would win? 100 tongues slandering the lady of Winterfell or 1 Cregan Stark?
Cregan Stark x Reader | 700< | cw: fem!reader, wife!reader, insecurities, implied body shaming, protective!cregan, fluff, typos, etc.
A/N: this is totally me projecting cos my sis and i got body shamed today. it be ur own family i swear
"Where is my wife?" is the first thing Lord Stark says when he returns from his errands. He grunts as he dismounts his horse, eyes fixed upon the stable boy who takes his horse by the reins.
He grunts again at the lack of response and explains, "she told me she would be here when I returned."
The boy shrugs, "I don't know, milord. 've not seen milady all day."
He huffs and nods. He decides to simply look for you in your shared chambers, thinking you would probably be there. Finding your quarters empty, he heads to the library, then the solar, the kitchen, and soon- "where is my wife?!" is heard and repeated all across Winterfell.
Someone tells him you went into the woods to forage, and so naturally, he asks who you left with. He receives no name, and quickly it dawns you had left the safety of stronghold alone. His heart races. How long have you been out? By the old gods, how long have you been out?
Cregan mounts his horse at once and patrols the land. He screams your name out so loudly it disrupts the surrounding wildlife.
He snaps when he hears a response. He is unmistaken; that was your voice calling out his name. Quickly, he answers your call and rides toward you. He nearly leaps from his horse when he spots you, face crestfallen, hair frosty.
He calls your name again, much softer now, voice laced in worry. He captures your cheeks in his hands, hissing when he feels it's unnatural coolness, "are you well?"
You hold a guilty expression as he moves to rub your shoulders.
"Why have you left unaccompanied?" Cregan huffs hotly, his breath condensing with the air, "has something happened?"
"Cregan-" you place your hands on his chest. He stops rubbing your arms.
He watches how you lower your gaze. His face hardens with concern, "my love, speak to me."
You look up at him, eyes now pinkish and teary.
His jaw clenches. He huffs through his nostrils.
"I overheard... ..."
Cregan's expression softens. He clutches your cheeks, "speak," he rubs your skin with his thumbs, "I implore you to speak."
Your sigh turns to fog. You shrug, "they do not think I... I am a true Northern bride."
"True?" he snaps, "you are a Northern bride," he brushes your hair back, "I am Northern and you are my bride."
Your tears become too heavy.
Cregan's stomach churns as he wipes your tears. He hushes you and mutters under his breath, "there can be no truer bride than that of the Lord of Winterfell's."
"I fare horribly in the cold."
"You will grow accustomed to it."
"I do not know how to start a fire."
"Then I shall teach you, if you must lear-"
"But I do not look the part!"
Cregan's face drops.
Your tears begin to turn to frost. Your voice is small, "I do not look like the other ladies. I do not wear the furs well, I do not look shapely... I feel beastly. I was not forged by steel as you are, husband."
He rubs your cheeks, determined to warm you, "and who would slander my wife? Force her to feast on lies?"
You scoff and lower your gaze
"Would that you need be forged by steel-"
You shake your head, "it does not matter."
"It matters greatly," he releases your cheeks, "I will have them answer to their accusations," he clenches his fists, "and we shall see how their furs suit them when they've wet them."
You look up at Cregan, brows furrowing at the sight of his increasing fury.
"I would have them grovel," he mutters, "and sentence them to the Wall if they do not-"
You lips part, "Cregan-"
"Do they believe I would not do that much for the lady of mine own house? My lady?"
"Cregan," you rub the collar of his cloak.
He examines you. A line forms between his brows as he reaches for your wrist.
You look at each other for a moment. His thumb rubs circles on your skin. You raise your brows, "I... I picked a few berries for you," you turn to the basket that laid forgotten on the ground.
His gaze shifts to it.
"Though, I must admit... I am uncertain if they are edible."
He chuckles and takes your hand in his. He kisses your knuckles.
You offer him a soft smile.
The man hums, "perhaps we shall see by feeding them to the slanderers."
You whip your head back, "Cregan."
"A jest... a jest, my lady."
#cregan stark#cregan stark fanfic#cregan stark fic#cregan stark fluff#cregan stark fanfiction#cregan#creagn fic#cregan fanfic#cregan fluff#cregan fanfiction#house of the dragon#house of the dragon fic#cregan x reader#cregan stark x reader
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Cradle

Summary: Arthur Morgan cares for his newborn daughter, reflecting on his past mistakes and vowing to protect his family at all costs.
wc: 1,681
ao3 link
a/n: Literally cannot get enough of hot father Arthur Morgan/John Marston right now. I'm ovulating.
The storm rolled in fast, the low rumble of thunder following Arthur Morgan as he urged his horse forward, the reins tight in his hands. His heart was poundingânot from the gallop of the horse beneath him, but from the fear gnawing at his chest. He had been gone longer than he shouldâve been, out scouting for supplies, and now he was racing the clock. Racing fate.
And racing to you.
The moment Charles had found him in camp, breathless and shouting about how you were in labor, Arthur felt the air rush out of his lungs. He hadnât said a word, just mounted his horse and took off like a bullet, the world blurring around him. All he could think of was youâyour face, your voice, and the child you were bringing into this wild, dangerous world.
The cabin came into view, nestled in a clearing just as the rain began to pour. Arthur pulled his horse to a stop, leaping from the saddle before the animal had fully stopped. His boots hit the muddy ground, splattering his pants, but he didnât care. The soft glow of the lantern in the window was his beacon.
"Did I miss it?" he calls out to whomever could hear, fear laced in his voice.
âArthur!â Abigailâs voice called from the doorway as she stepped outside, shielding her face from the rain. âYouâre just in time!â
He pushed past her with a muttered âthanks,â his heart pounding as he crossed the threshold into the small cabin. It was warm inside, the air thick with the scent of herbs and something sharp, almost metallic. The midwifeâa kind-faced older woman who had been passing through campâwas kneeling by the bed where you lay.
You. His heart nearly stopped when he saw you, your face pale and damp with sweat, your hair sticking to your forehead. You looked exhausted, your body trembling as you gripped the sheets beneath you, but your eyes snapped to him the moment he entered the room.
âArthur,â you whispered, relief flooding your voice. âYou made it.â
He crossed the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees beside you and taking your hand in his. His calloused fingers enveloped yours, rough but steady, grounding you as you held on for dear life.
ââCourse I made it,â he said, his voice thick with emotion. âWouldnât miss this for the world.â
âYou almost did,â you teased weakly, though your grip on his hand tightened as another contraction wracked your body. Your face twisted in pain, and Arthurâs heart ached in a way heâd never known before. He wished he could take it from you, bear it himself, but all he could do was be there.
âBreathe, sweetheart,â he murmured, his voice low and soothing. âIâm here. I got you.â
You nodded, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as you did as he said. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, his thumb brushing over your skin in a gesture that spoke louder than words. He was here. He wasnât going anywhere.
Time became a blur after that. The midwife gave instructions, Abigail hovered nearby with clean cloths, and Arthur stayed rooted by your side, his hand never leaving yours. He whispered words of encouragement, reassurances that you could do this, that you were the strongest person heâd ever known.
And then, just when you thought you couldnât take any more, a sharp cry filled the room.
You collapsed back against the pillows, tears streaming down your face as the midwife held up the squirming, wailing baby. Arthur stared, his breath catching in his throat as he took in the tiny, perfect life you had brought into the world.
âItâs a girl,â the midwife announced, her voice warm with pride. Arthur let out a shaky laugh, his hand still gripping yours as he turned to you, his blue eyes shining. âA baby girl,â he repeated, as if the words were foreign to him. âWe got ourselves a daughter."
Arthur Morgan had a daughter.
The midwife cleaned the baby quickly before wrapping her in a soft blanket and placing her in your arms. You looked down at the tiny face, your tears mingling with laughter as you marveled at the little life you had created.
Arthur leaned closer, his large hand hovering over the babyâs head as if he was afraid to touch her. But when he finally did, his fingers were impossibly gentle, tracing the curve of the babyâs tiny cheek, then her nose.
As the baby settled in your arms, Arthur stayed close, his presence a steady warmth at your side. The storm raged on outside, but in that little cabin, all was calm. The three of you were together, and for the first time in a long time, Arthur felt like he had something worth fighting for.
-
The morning sun crept through the cracks in the cabin walls, casting golden rays over the small room. The air smelled of wood smoke and fresh pine, mingling with the faint scent of baby powder. Arthur Morgan stood near the hearth, rocking the tiny bundle in his arms with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place for a man of his size and reputation.
He hadnât slept much the night beforeânot that he minded. Every sound the baby made, every soft whimper or rustle, had him awake and alert, ready to jump to your side or pick up the little one himself. But now, with you finally getting some well-deserved rest in the small cot across the room, it was just him and his daughter.
âSheâs got your nose,â Arthur murmured, his deep voice quiet, as if afraid to break the spell of the moment. He traced a finger gently over her tiny features, marveling at how small and delicate she was. She stirred slightly, her face scrunching up in a way that made his heart ache.
âAlready got a temper, huh?â he said with a small chuckle. âGuess thatâs from me.â
He settled into the old rocking chair by the fire, cradling her close to his chest. The rhythmic creak of the chair mixed with the soft crackle of the fire, and for a moment, the chaos of the world outside seemed far away. He hummed a low tune, the same one his ma used to sing when he was a boy, his voice rough but steady.
âYouâre somethinâ else, yâknow that?â he whispered to her. âDidnât think a man like me deserved somethinâ this good.â
She let out a small sigh, her tiny fist curling against his chest. Arthur stilled, his breath catching. It was the smallest thing, but it felt like the world to him. He hadnât known he could love anything this much again, not since Isaac and Eliza. But here she was, proving him wrong with every beat of her little heart.
He glanced over at you, still asleep and bundled in blankets. Youâd been through so much bringing her into the world, and Arthur had been there every step of the way. Heâd held your hand, whispered reassurances in your ear, and wiped the sweat from your brow when you thought you couldnât do it. And now, watching you sleep peacefully, he felt a surge of gratitude that he couldnât quite put into words.
âSheâs got your strength, too,â Arthur said softly, glancing down at the baby again. âHope sheâs got more of you than me. World could use more like her ma.â
The baby let out a small cry, her face scrunching up again. Arthurâs eyes widened, and he quickly stood, bouncing her gently in his arms. âAlright, alright, easy now,â he murmured, his voice soothing. âWhatâs the matter, huh? You hungry?â
He walked over to the small table where a clean bottle sat waiting, quickly warming it by the fire. Once it was ready, he settled back into the chair and offered it to her. She latched on immediately, her tiny lips working with determination. Arthur couldnât help but laugh softly, his eyes crinkling with affection.
âThere you go,â he said. âAinât no need to cry when your paâs gotcha, huh?â
As she drank, Arthur leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. His mind wandered, thinking of everything heâd done, every bad choice heâd made, every road that had led him here. He wasnât a good manânot by a long shotâbut holding her, he wanted to try. For you. For her.
When she finished, he placed the bottle aside and held her up against his shoulder, patting her back gently. âYouâre gonna have a good life,â he promised, his voice thick with emotion. âDonât care what I gotta do. Iâm gonna make sure you and your ma are safe. Always.â Arthur couldn't make the same mistake twice.
The baby let out a soft burp, and Arthur chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. âThatâs my girl,â he murmured, settling her back into the crook of his arm.
A soft rustle from the bed caught his attention, and he turned to see you stirring, your eyes fluttering open. You smiled sleepily when you saw him, your gaze drifting to the baby in his arms.
âHowâs she doinâ?â you asked, your voice still thick with sleep.
Arthur smiled, his expression soft. âSheâs perfect. Just like her ma.â
You sat up, stretching before crossing the room to join him. Arthur shifted slightly, making room for you to sit on the arm of the chair. You leaned against him, your head resting on his shoulder as you both gazed down at your daughter.
âSheâs gonna have your heart, you know,â you said teasingly, though there was warmth in your voice.
Arthur let out a quiet laugh. âReckon she already does.â
For a long moment, the three of you sat there together, the fire casting a warm glow over the room. The outside world could wait. Right now, all that mattered was the love shared in that little cabinâArthur, you, and the tiny miracle cradled in his arms.
#rdr2 arthur morgan#rdr2 arthur#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan rdr2#arthur morgan#red dead redemption arthur#red dead redemption community#red dead fandom#red dead redemption two#red dead redemption 2#red dead redemption fanart#not my photo#not my art#others art#Arthur Morgan deserves happiness#Arthur Morgan does not have tuberculosis#rdr2#rdr2 community#rdr2 art#rdr2 fanart#rdr fic#rdr2 fic#high honor arthur morgan#father Arthur Morgan#dad Arthur Morgan
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solas planned crestwood
not to break up with lavellan, obviously
but he made plans
he had to have - crestwood is so far away from skyhold, and he is so eager to have her accompany him
I wonder what the moments before the well conversation were
amidst his fear and frustration with how the events at the temple played out, did he ask a servant to pack her a bag? Did he pack it himself? What was the chatter around the great hall as residents and visitors alike noticed the apostateâs belongings joining the inquisitors down the stairs.
What did Dennet think, when solas requested two mounts be prepared for a long journey moments after the party returned from the arbor wilds? Could he sense Solasâ anxiety? The fearful thread of hope that threatened to lighten his shoulders?
How quickly did the kitchen staff begin to gossip about rations prepared for two? Did they slip an extra skein of into the pack, their own well-wishes poured in with the good wine?
What did Lavellan think, arriving at the foot of the gates to find weeks worth of travel prepared, two bedrooms and a single tent, Solas standing taller than he ever had, save in their shared dreams, and holding out a hand to help her mount her steed. Did his hand tremble with the weight of what he would say? Or did the prospect of finally admitting the truth help him leap into the saddle?
How quickly did the entire castle know that solas intended to devote himself to the inquisitor
and how quickly did all their smiles turn to ash when he returned alone
#dragon age#solas#lavellan#solavellan#they couldnât just up and leave#and he asks her so confidently so intentionally#he had to make a plan
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Lovesick A.M x f!reader
--â
Rose Hats and Rough Hearts




(AN: So, a fic idea I have serves as an inspo for this one-shot. The reader is a morally gray character and doesn't like being part of the gang. Anyway, enjoy reading!.) Syno: When her sharp tongue turns on Dutch, Arthur wonders if sheâs gone too far, or if heâs fallen too deep. Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), pining, angst, fluff. â° -11k.

âWell, wasnât that easy? Been a long time since I enjoyed a robbery like that,â Hosea chuckled, tugging down his bandana.
Arthur glanced at the bag tied to the horse, heavy with valuables, and gave a small nod. âDefinitely.â
The two rode at a leisurely pace, the quiet night stretching around them like a blanket, the stars casting a soft glow over the landscape. Arthurâs eyes drifted as they moved, catching on a patch of bushes nearby.
Roses.
Even in the faint starlight, their delicate shapes stood out, and an idea bloomed in his mind.
âUh, Hosea,â Arthur started, breaking the calm, âIâve got an errand to run.â
âAn errand? At this time of night?â Hosea raised a brow, his tone lightly scolding. âYou oughta rest now, son. Youâve earned it.â
âNo, no, jus' need to head into town for a bit. Wonât be long, donât you worry.â
Hosea paused for a moment, then gave a knowing smile and nodded. âAlright, if you say so. Just donât go gettinâ yourself into trouble.â
He handed Hosea the score and with a final farewell, the two parted ways, Arthur veering off towards the town, his thoughts already on the next step of his plan.
Arthur arrived at the shop and dismounted, but instead of heading inside, he lingered by his horse, running a hand over the animalâs neck. Was this even a good idea? Why was it all so damn complicated?
Thereâs no harm in buying something, right? Just a harmless gesture. He could figure out what to do with it later... later.
For days now, it had been the same cycle.
Donât think about her. Just donât.
Thereâs no harm in it, right?
And yet he does.
Donât look at her, itâs strange. Keep your distance.
A few stolen glances donât mean anything when sheâs far away, right?
And yet he does.
Donât buy her a gift. What kind of fool even does that? Who is he to her, anyway?
And here he is, standing outside the shop, heart pounding like a damn fool, a love fool.
âYes, sir? How may I help you? By the way, thereâs a 15% discount on the winter stock. Perhaps youâd like to try the waistcoats?â
Arthur scratched the back of his neck, his eyes drifting around the shop. Was he in the right place? He scanned the shelves and displays until his gaze landed on the wall.
Yes, there it was. The item heâd noticed before.
âCan you show me that hat?â
The shopkeeper immediately retrieved it with a practiced hand and held it out with a smile. âOur latest and most popular piece, sir. Only $22.â
Arthur took the hat, turning it over in his hands. The black leather gleamed, unscathed and pristine, a far cry from his well-worn one. His eyes lingered on the rose corsage affixed to the middle, subtle but striking.
He stepped toward the mirror, setting the hat on his head, and studied his reflection. It was a fine hat
"Goes perfectly with your outfit, sir."
Arthurâs lips curled into a faint smile, but it quickly faded as he turned back to the shelves. âI saw a scarf, too. The one with the, uh... rose pattern.â
âOh, the womenâs one! Let me fetch it for you.â
The shopkeeper moved swiftly, his hands deftly retrieving the scarf. He prattled on about its fine quality and craftsmanship, but Arthur barely registered the words. They flew past him like horses leaping over a fence.
His thoughts were elsewhere, on you. On how the scarf would look wrapped around your neck, the way it might frame your face. The image was enough to push him to hand over the dollar bills for both items, not even noticing heâd given more than what was asked.
The shopkeeperâs voice called out behind him, but Arthur had already turned, mounting his Irish Draught, Clover, and riding off without a second glance.
Heâd be wearing the rose hat, and youâd be wearing the scarf. The thought sat heavy in his chest, a strange mix of warmth and unease. Was he really going to give it to you now?
The wind tugged at his coat, but it couldnât scatter the doubts and questions circling his mind. Was this... a confession?
Would you, confounding as you were, with your quicksilver moods and quiet distance, accept anything from him? You, who rarely spared him more than a glance, choosing instead to linger with the girls, Molly especially.
It ate at him sometimes, the way you seemed so unreachable. Always just out of his grasp, moving through the camp like a wisp of smoke, untouchable and wholly your own. And yet, he couldnât stop watching.
Couldnât stop wanting.
You didnât belong here, not like him, at least. You carried yourself with an air of defiance, tethered to the camp not by loyalty but necessity. A reluctant, bitter presence that had no reason to look twice at someone as rooted in this life as he was.
He saw the way you didnât fit, the way you wanted to leave. And maybe thatâs why the thought of you wearing the scarf--his scarf now--stirred something fierce inside him. The idea that, for once, he might give you something that tethered you to him, however briefly. Better than being tied to someone else. God, you have made him so selfish.
He clenched the scarf tighter, his jaw set. Maybe it wasnât much, but it was a start.
He didnât know much about you, except years ago when one day he came to the camp and discovered that Hosea and Bessie had found somewhere, taken you in as a baby, and raised you as their own as they always wanted a child. Nobody in the camp knew where they found you except perhaps Dutch but it was never told properly and he didn't pry much too, no one really did. Everything had been fine-peaceful, even, until Bessie passed.
After that, youâd wanted out. To leave the camp, carve out a life of your own, away from the shadow of the gang. But Hosea couldnât let you go. He was your father, after all, the one who had protected you, shielding you from the blood and grime of their world just as Bessie had wished for.
And then there was himself whose hands were drenched in blood.
All of this screamed doom. Yet, he was doomed... doomed by his stupid feelings and that desperate longing to have someone to call his own, to have someone waiting for him. A foolish wish, considering the life heâd led, the blood heâd spilled, and the world he was tied to.
He slowed the stallion, the weight of bubbling anxiety and frustration pressing down on him. God, it was all a mess. Even if he could manage to stop thinking for a while, to quiet the storm in his head... when he'd return to the camp and see you again, just going about your business, sulking in some corner after an argument, or throwing those sharp, witty remarks, especially at Pearson as you cooked, that pull, that ache, would come rushing back.
Curiosity was the root of it all. He just wanted to know. Why? Why were you like this? Was it because of Molly, how sheâd twisted your heart with her bitterness, making you turn your back on Dutch and the rest of the gang? Or did you simply not care at all about any of them?
He huffed at the thought of the stew you probably made, not out of love, but out of duty, or maybe a touch of malice. If it tasted so good, made with nothing but spite, he couldnât help but wonder how much better it would be if you made it with love.
â˰
With a final pat to Cloverâs neck, Arthur made his way back to camp, greeting the men as he passed. But there was something off, a silence hanging heavier than usual. He made his way toward Dutch, figuring he might have some thoughts on the score with Hosea.
"Dutch?"
The older man turned his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he exhaled a cloud of smoke, his gaze fixed on the lake.
"Arthur."
Before Arthur could speak, Dutch continued, his tone slow, almost contemplative. "You know weâre a family, right? That everything we do is for each other, not just for ourselves..."
"Of course, Dutch."
Dutch chuckled softly, the sound more gravel than humor, before crushing the cigar underfoot casually. "Some people, immature people, just can't seem to understand that."
With that, Dutch turned and walked back to his tent, leaving Arthur standing there.
"Is... something the matter?"
"Thing? No, someone is the matter." Dutchâs words were sharp, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at Arthur.
Arthur gave him an impatient look, silently urging him to get to the point. This wasnât how heâd planned to spend the evening. Not at all. Heâd been hoping to retreat to his tent, to let his mind drift into thoughts of you, to finally sit and think about the gift heâd picked out for you, wondering if you'd even notice if you'd even like it. He could already picture himself, the soft scarf fabric between his fingers, tracing the rose pattern as his thoughts wandered, imagining what it would feel like to wrap it around your neck... his gift for you.
Dutch exhaled sharply, clearly agitated. "Hosea has let her get away with too much. You know what she did? When Hosea returned to drop off the share from your little endeavor, she-" He cut himself off with a frustrated growl. "She thought I wasnât here. She came charging out, and started an argument, telling him he was doing the wrong thing--the wrong thing! Can you believe that?"
Dutch shook his head in disbelief. "She actually had the nerve to say that, Arthur. And that instead of doing this--helping us all--he should be out saving for them both and getting away from this life. "I swear, Arthur... turning one of my most trusted men, a friend, against me? Over some damn bills? But Hosea... being Hosea...what does he do? Runs out of camp to bring her back."
"So what did you suggest?!" Hoseaâs voice cut through the tension as he entered the tent, his eyes flashing with frustration. "Let my daughter go out in the wild alone? At night? How could you do that, say 'get lost' just like that? Knowing she will take it seriously? She grew up right in front of you!"
"Oh, so it hurt her ego, huh?! Like I care. For me , nothingâs worse than a selfish, disloyal piece of trash that you just had to take in because-"
"Enough! No! Donât you dare bring that up."
With a heavy sigh, Hosea turned on his heel, walking away from the confrontation, leaving Dutch to seethe in silence.
Dutch watched him go, muttering under his breath, "Take those damn dollars you bestowed on us, Hosea, and gift her a house, for all I care! Fine by my ass!"
Arthurâs mind was a tangled mess, unable to process the whirlwind of events. So much had happened, so many emotions he could hardly keep up. Confusion clouded his mind, frustration clawed at his chest, exhaustion weighed down on his bones, and fury burned in his gut. But none of it made sense. He couldn't even figure out who--or what--his anger was really directed at.
Was it you? Was it your reckless, thoughtless actions that set this all in motion? Or was it Dutch's words and how casually he was ready to kick a girl out, kick you out, just like that?
It was at both.
It was both, but more than anything, it was you. Because youâd started it, hadnât you? You always had a problem with Dutchâs authority, even when you kept your sweet little mouth shut. It was in your eyes, those eyes. The eyes he could never get enough of, the ones he craved to meet his own. If only for a second. A second where the same longing, the same hunger for something more, reflected back at him.
But instead, there you were. Acting like everything was just... nothing. Like none of it mattered. Like he didnât matter. You went out there recklessly and carelessly, as if you could just walk away from everything. From him. How fucking could you? What if it had gotten worse and someone just decided to harm you because of your damn tongue in the camp and even Hosea couldn't do anything-
"Arthur?"
"U-Um, yes?"
"What do you think? Hm?"
"About...what happened? I--itâs... yeah, she shouldnât have said that," Arthur muttered, the words clumsy and heavy on his tongue.
Dutch hummed, a slow and pointed sound, as though weighing Arthurâs response and finding it just barely acceptable. Arthur didnât wait for more. He muttered a farewell and slipped out of the tent, the cool air doing little to clear the haze in his mind.
His eyes found Hosea almost immediately. The old man was sitting on his bedroll, his posture stiff and guarded. His eyes screamed of hurt, Dutch's words had affected him deeply. After some seconds his eyes would flicker at your tent. The sight made Arthurâs chest ache. Hoseaâs protectiveness was undeniable.
Because no matter how much Hosea wanted to protect you, Arthur wanted something deeper, something more selfish.
What the hell am I even thinking? he chastised himself, shaking his head. Sheâs not my responsibility. Sheâs not mine.
He wanted to say something to Hosea, to offer comfort or at least commiseration, but his feet wouldnât move. Instead, he turned away, retreating to his own tent with a heavy sigh. Once inside, he shut the flaps, placed his hat on the table, and dropped onto the cot with a grunt of annoyance.
Reaching for the scarf, Arthur held it above him, the dim light tracing over its soft, silken material. He let it graze his face, the faint scent of the shop lingering on it, but it was his mind that did the real work. He imagined the fabric tangled in your hair, how it would feel wrapped around you as he held you close. He could almost feel the tickle of those strands against his skin, his breath hot against the side of your neck.
The thought of having you here, in his arms, that close, his hands gripping you, pulling you to him, ignited something fierce inside him. It wasnât just the touch. It was the idea that you could be his, fully, if only youâd let him. He clenched the scarf tighter, frustration and something darker simmering in his chest.
With that vision playing in his mind, he let the scarf fall, draping it across his face and chest, the weight of it somehow both comforting and unbearable.
Lying there in the dark, his lips brushed over the fabric absently, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. It was maddening, the way you consumed his thoughts without even trying. Even now, with frustration still simmering under his skin, all he wanted was to see you, to watch your expression, even if it meant enduring one of your scowls.
You little menace, I swear one of these days I might just lose my patience.
But you didnât care, did you? Youâd stormed out, reckless and fiery, with no thought of him or anyone, not even yourself. And here he was, lying alone, haunted by the feeling of silk and the ghost of a life heâd never have. With a frustrated grunt, Arthur shifted onto his side, clutching it closer, the tension in his body growing. He couldn't help but think if he had been here earlier, he would have tied you to him, not out of malice, but out of desperate, aching need. The kind of need that he couldnât push down, no matter how much he tried. The kind that made him crave something from you that you didnât even know you had to give. Something more. Something that would finally make you stay.
Sleep wouldnât come easily.
He wanted you to feel it, to bear the same punishment he carried every night. To know what it was like to lie awake, tormented by the thought of someone you couldnât have, unable to chase the fleeting peace of sleep because they haunted you in ways you couldnât name. He wanted you to understand how it felt to be unraveled by longing, to have your very being tethered to someone who wouldnât even look your way.
But then...what was he even saying?
Why did he keep forgetting the truth? That you didnât deserve his anger, his silent pleas for recognition. That the fault wasnât yours for not seeing him, no, it was his for daring to want you in the first place. Of course, you wouldnât ever look at him that way. He was older, too far removed from your world, your interests, your life. And he knew, deep down, that you wouldnât ever imagine, not in a thousand years, that someone like him could ever be interested in you. Even he could admit it, this was all stupid, unexpected, and nothing more than a fantasy.
And still, knowing this, he couldnât stop himself. The heart never makes sense, does it? It doesnât listen to reason or its owner, dragging you where it pleases, no matter the cost. Even he, a man who prided himself on control, had been reduced to a mere servant of its whims.
His fingers curled around the scarf as if it could somehow hold the pieces of him together. As if its softness could soothe the fire that burned inside him, one that you had lit and would never know.
Meanwhile, you lay in bed, staring at the worn canvas of the tent above. You werenât leaving this tent. Not now. Not later. Not for anyone. They could all be damned for all you cared, it had all been damned ever since your mother died.
She was your anchor, the one thing tethering you to any sense of stability. And the moment she was gone, the world had cracked open, spilling truths youâd long suspected but never wanted confirmed. You werenât really theirs. You werenât their daughter.
Hosea refused to tell you why or how you ended up here, tucked into the folds of their chaos. But the truth was, you didnât care anymore. You were tired. Tired of the games, the blind loyalty to Dutchâs every whim, the endless cycle of running and stealing and pretending any of it had meaning.
All you wanted was a normal life, a roof over your head that didnât leak when it rained, a place where fear didnât cling to the walls like smoke. But that dream stayed out of reach, just like everything else. Hosea wouldnât let you go. He was scared to lose you, to lose something that was never even his.
Pathetic.
Thatâs what it was. Thatâs what they all were. And maybe Molly was right, Dutchâs charm was nothing but poison, bleeding into everything and everyone
"Bastard..."
You wanted a job, something stable to call your own. Or, if that wasnât in the cards, maybe just to find some rich fool to marry so you could finally live in peace. Far from all this chaos. But no, these people couldnât leave well enough alone, they had to loot every rich soul they came across.
Leave someone for me to marry at least, you scoffed bitterly, lips curling in a faint, humourless smile.
Sigh.
Dream on, (Y/N). Dream on.
Hoseaâs familiar voice drifted in from nearby, low and steady as he spoke with Abigail. No doubt she was serving him food since you hadnât bothered to. The sound grated on you, making you roll your eyes and turn to the other side of your bedroll. It wouldnât be long, two days, maximum, before Hosea came to lecture you, or worse, dragged you out of this tent himself.
He was always so damn strict when it came to pulling your weight.
But right now?
Screw it. Screw him. Screw all of them.
Let them fend for themselves.
â˰
"Why do you do all this?"
Not did that. Do this.
Arthurâs voice was low, almost fragile, but there was a weight to it. A question layered with meanings he couldnât bring himself to say outright. He just hoped youâd hear it, the real question, underneath the words. His gaze stayed fixed on the worn soles of your shoes, watching as you scrubbed at the dishes with an edge of restrained aggression that didnât go unnoticed.
The sight would be funny to anyone in the camp right now. He was reduced to barely speaking above a whisper when it came to you, his usual steady tone faltering in a way it never did with anyone else. Whilst you were the only one who wasn't afraid of even him. While others tiptoed around him, wary of the weight his presence carried, you treated him with the same indifference, the same biting sharpness that you spared for everyone else.
Dammit, he fucking loved it.
It wasnât fear he wanted from you, not respect or even obedience. It was something, anything, that showed he wasnât just another face in the camp to you. It made him feel like that was all he was. Just another man under Dutch rule.
And it was maddening.
"I could ask the same question to everyone here," you replied, voice steady but sharp, like a blade dulled just enough to wound without cutting too deep.
"But you know the answer."
"And you do too," you shot back, turning slightly to glance over your shoulder, "but here you are. Playing the mediator of sorts."
Arthur exhaled sharply, his gaze falling to the ground as if the weight of your words had struck him in the chest. For someone who claimed to want nothing to do with this place, with these people, you had an uncanny way of stirring up trouble within it.
Perhaps you wanted that. You wanted to get kicked out.
He wanted to throw the thought out into the open, let it snap between you like a taut rope. But the bitterness in your tone, the heaviness in your stance, made him hesitate. Throwing oil on the fire wasnât going to do either of you any good, not today.
"Youâre wasting your breath on someone who isn't listening to whatever you have to say."
"Then Iâll just keep talkinâ until you do."
"Do whatever, I don't care. This place is full of people barking orders and trying to be big. Pft. How adorable."
At least spare me a glance. Just one.
"If you don't care about yourself, then at least do it for Hosea..." His voice was strained, laced with a desperation he couldn't quite hide.
That made you turn, finally, but the look you gave him was anything but kind. Your gaze was sharp, cutting, laced with a mix of disdain and challenge. "Oh, so now you're worried about me being a bad daughter or something?" you said, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "I wonder if you all think the same way when you're out there making other daughters cry, making women widows and destroying families without a second thought."
This was the longest conversation you both had. Ever. And damn it was a wrecked one.
Your lips curled into a humorless smile as you snorted, mocking. "Tsk, I bet that's an exception, right? Family only exists here." You pitched your voice to mimic Dutch's smooth drawl, the mockery biting. Then, as if dismissing him entirely, you turned back to the washing, your hands moving with renewed fervor, the sound of water splashing filling the silence.
Arthur stood there, jaw tight, the weight of your words sinking into him like stones in a river.
He stood rooted in place, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. He wanted to say something, needed to say something, but the words lodged themselves somewhere in his throat, refusing to come out. Maybe it was the truth in your words that had him stunned.
Before Arthur could find a way to steer the conversation elsewhere, Hosea stepped into the fray, his tone calm yet firm. â(Y/N)...dear, today or tomorrow, youâve got to apologize to Dutch and bury this hatchet.â
Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly, looking off to the side, the tension in the air thick enough to choke on. His heart thumped unevenly as he anticipated your response.
You turned to Hosea sharply, your expression a volatile mix of shock and simmering fury. âYou want me to apologize to him?! For what?. Just for talking to you about something Iâve wanted to for so damn long?!â
Arthurâs head snapped back in your direction. He could see the fire in your eyes now, blazing and relentless, and it struck something in him. That fire, he both loved and hated it, craved it and feared it. It was the very thing that made you impossible to ignore, yet it was also what pushed you farther from him. And still, he couldnât help but think how maddeningly beautiful you looked right now, even if it tore him apart to watch you lock yourself away further from everyone, including him.
âItâs not about what was said, itâs about how it was said. Dutch... heâs not perfect, but heâs trying. We all are.â
âTrying? Trying to keep us all in line like dogs? Sure, that sounds like areallyl noble effort. If you want to grovel to Dutch, go ahead, Papa. But donât drag me into it.â
Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his fingers brushing against his holster as if searching for something to ground himself. He knew that your words were not only directed at Hosea but him too.
âYouâve got too much pride,â Hosea muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.
"And youâve got too much blind loyalty."
Hosea held your gaze, his own softening but remaining firm. "Look, let me say this again, this isnât about the words you said, itâs about the way you said them. You can stand by your beliefs without tearing everyone else down in the process, sweetheart."
"So what? Dutch can tear everyone down, but when someone calls him out, itâs suddenly a problem?! Thatâs rich."
"It doesn't matter!" Hoseaâs voice rose slightly before he caught himself, lowering it to a pleading tone. "And quiet down, donât create a scene, again. Have mercy on your old man, at least. For now, weâre in the camp, and as long as we are, Dutch shouldnât be disrespected like that. You can be as angry as you want with me, but please, just apologize to him. Heâs always been like an uncle to you... (Y/N)."
You let out a bitter scoff, your lips curling in defiance. "And he's the one who clearly doesn't want me here but--fine...fine Papa," your hands slammed the plate down in the basin. "Iâll do whatever you say. Because, apparently, my words are nothing but bullets of disloyalty now. The same words that were once adorable wishes to you."
Your words hit like a lash, leaving Hosea standing frozen as you stormed off toward your tent. Arthur watched the older man, his chest tightening when he saw the same hurt settle in Hoseaâs eyes, the kind of pain that only festers in the heart of someone who loves deeply and feels powerless.
"I wish..." Hosea began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling under the weight of emotions he rarely let show. "I wish I never told her the truth... that sheâs not my child. Maybe it messed her up... It broke me more than it broke her."
Arthur stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the dirt as he hesitated for a moment before closing the distance. Hosea turned his head slightly, and Arthur's heart clenched when he saw the glint of tears streaking down the older manâs face. It was the second time Arthur had witnessed Hosea cry, the first being after Bessie's death.
"It... it terrified me," Hosea whispered, voice thick with emotion. "I kept thinkin' last night, what if one day I'm not here, and Dutch just turns on her like that? Sure, the women might object, but thatâs it. Theyâre powerless against him. No one would stand up for her... and she'd be all alone..." He sniffed, wiping his eyes, trying to regain control. "And thatâs what broke me, Arthur."
It broke me too...
"Jus' don't think about all that happened. Forget it and don't worry Dutch will forget about it. He wonât hold onto it, not like that. And she... sheâll forget too. Youâll see."
Hosea let out a dry chuckle, wiping a stray tear from his weathered cheek. "She? I donât think so. Not about this. When it comes to this topic, she wonât let it go." He paused, leaning heavily against the wooden counter, his shoulders sagging, "I want it too, Arthur. The house, the quiet life⊠I want to give her that. But itâs not easy. Itâs not."
He gestured vaguely toward the camp, the flickering lantern light catching in his tired eyes. "Leaving all this behind, all of you, itâd feel like... like a betrayal. Even if I left on a good note, it wouldnât sit right. Do you get what I mean?"
Arthur nodded, his posture relaxing now that you werenât there to sharpen the tension in the air. "Yeah," he said softly. "I think we all... kind of want that." His words trailed off, his thoughts unraveling into something more personal. Something he couldnât bring himself to say.
I do. I want it... with you. Maybe. No...
Only.
Hosea turned his head to study him, Arthur caught the look and quickly shrugged it off, letting out a small exhale as if to clear the thought entirely. "Jusâ donât let Dutch know," he muttered with a faint smirk. Hosea returned the gesture. " 'Course not. Let's go have some coffee, boy." He reached to pat the man's shoulder but Arthurâs hand shot out, grabbing Hoseaâs with a suddenness that made the older man freeze. His eyes, wide and questioning, met Arthurâs with a flicker of concern.
"Um--thereâs... something that I want to..." Arthurâs voice faltered as he cleared his throat. His gaze darted to the ground, to the side, anywhere but Hoseaâs eyes. The same sheepish, uncertain look Hosea had seen a hundred times, but now it felt different.
Hosea arched a brow, waiting for him to continue. "Well, go on then. What did you do?"
Arthurâs mind was a mess, his thoughts tangled with nerves and fear. What the hell am I doing? His heart raced as his hand shook slightly. What the hell am I about to do?
His breath caught as he reached into the inside of his jacket, fingers brushing the fabric of the chest pocket where heâd hidden it. It was a decision that had plagued him for days, one that felt impossible to avoid now.
He pulled out the scarf--silken, covered in his scent, soft to the touch, but now burning in his hand like a symbol of everything he couldnât say.
 For her.
Itâs for her.
"I- I bought this..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying the words aloud made them too real, too vulnerable.
Hoseaâs face was unreadable at first, but then he saw the scarf, and a brief chuckle escaped him, though it didnât quite reach his eyes. "I thought it was clear Iâm a man, Arthur."
The joke hit Arthur like a slap, and he couldnât help but feel his chest tighten. God, this was harder than heâd imagined. His throat went dry, his fingers tightening around the scarf as if it could somehow anchor him, give him the courage to keep going. But he was drowning in hesitation.
Arthurâs cheeks flushed a deep pink, his entire body trembling with an emotion he couldnât quite name. The thought of Hoseaâs reaction, the uncertainty of what might follow this moment, made him question if heâd just made the biggest mistake of his life. Would Hosea kill him? Would he laugh at him? Or worse, would he pity him?
Hoseaâs eyes bore into him, patient, yet expectant. "Well, boy?"
Arthurâs mouth went dry, but he forced the words out. "Itâs for... (Y/N)."
For a moment, there was a stillness, and then to his shock, Hoseaâs expression softened, eyes widening, almost in a kind of jubilant surprise.
Hosea took the scarf from Arthur, his hands gentle as he examined the gift. A sense of something unspoken passed between them, something Arthur couldnât quite name, but it was there in the way Hoseaâs gaze softened. "Really?"
Arthur barely had the strength to nod, his eyes avoiding Hoseaâs, his face burning with embarrassment and a kind of fear he couldnât even process. Was this really happening? He was spilling it to him, of all people, your father.
He nodded again, his voice barely a whisper. "Yeah..."
Hoseaâs hand reached out to pat Arthurâs arm in an almost fatherly gesture, a gentle smile forming on his face. "Well then... Iâll be sure to give it to her. Thank you. Yâknow... youâre the only one I trust after me."
Arthurâs heart skipped a beat, the words sinking in like the heaviest of weights. It felt like heâd won a game, but one he hadnât even realized he was playing.
Arthurâs throat tightened at the thought, his breath catching. He hadnât even realized how much heâd attached to the simple scarf until now. It was just a piece of fabric, yet the meaning behind it had become so much more than heâd ever expected.
"Just... tell her to, you know... donât burn it at least," he muttered, his chuckle awkward and thin. But the words werenât a joke. They were the truth, and they hit him harder than he wanted to admit.
The image burned in his mind, you, angry, perhaps unaware, throwing it into the campfire or tearing it apart with a pair of scissors. The thought was almost unbearable, each possibility worse than the last. The way his hands clenched into fists at his sides showed just how deep the fear ran.
He couldnât let that happen.
If you did something like that, if you so much as damaged it, he... he didnât know what heâd do. His thoughts spiraled out of control. Would he lash out? Would he burn the whole camp down if it meant getting you back, getting that thing back, untainted by your disregard? The intensity of his protectiveness shocked him, made his pulse quicken.
He forced himself to exhale, slow and controlled, but the tightness in his chest remained.
"Tell her," he repeated softly, though his voice cracked with something that felt more desperate than he'd intended.
"I will, I will. Don't you worry."
â˰
You nearly sewed your own finger, but kept going, the needle trembling slightly in your hand as you tried to focus. Jack sure knew how to break his damn button every week. But you never minded of course. That adorable little kid is like your brother. You couldn't remember the last time youâd felt calm enough to sit still and stitch something--anything--together without your mind wandering.
"Iâm proud of you, y'know. You apologized. Thank you." Hoseaâs voice broke through the silence, as he sipped his coffee. His words sank into the quiet of the tent.
"Of course you are."
His response was a low chuckle, tinged with affection. He knew you loved him and valued his advice,. His mind played the memories of the times when you always waited worriedly whenever he went on jobs and made sure he was looked after in the camp. Bandaged him. Never slacked off because you knew he hated that...well apart from the times when you were mad. Then even he couldn't convince you to move an inch of stone. Though, he couldn't be proud to have you as his daughter even if both of you clashed at moments like these.
You didnât give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Even if youâd done it for Hosea, for your own reasons, you couldn't shake the irritation that still lingered beneath your skin. But he was happy, and that was enough for him. His approval always mattered to you, more than youâd ever admit.
The silence stretched out between you as you continued to sew, the rhythmic motion almost comforting. But Hoseaâs gaze shifted, the way it always did when something was on his mind. He glanced at the closed flap of the tent, his attention drawn to the world outside. Then, after a moment, he spoke again.
"Here," Hosea said, holding the item out to you, his expression tight, as if he wasn't entirely sure how you would take it. You eyed the scarf suspiciously before taking it, your fingers brushing against the fabric, your thoughts clouded.
"Wow! Thanks...it's so pretty."
Hosea shifted on his feet, averting his gaze, as if the next words were stuck in his throat.
"It's...from Arthur."
"Wha---huh? Why?"
Hosea looked away again, the embarrassment and discomfort evident in his posture, but the message was clear. You felt the shift in the air, a kind of pressure that built between you both.
Your blood ran cold, and you couldn't stop the words that spilled from your lips. "Wha- excuse me??! Did you... did you just sell me or something?!"
The words landed, and Hosea's head snapped back, his face darkening, his jaw tight with frustration.
"What even---Are you out of your mind? Listen to me. I am not going to be here for you forever, and I worry for you, even if you think I don't! And him, heâs the only one I would trust to-"
"What are you on about?!" you cut him off, your voice rising with anger. "Am I some child that needs to be babysat?! I wonât stay here forever, either, Papa! Hell, I won't! And youâre here finding ways to bind me here?! I understand everything! Donât think Iâm a fool!"
You couldnât stop yourself. With a burst of pent-up fury, you threw the scarf on the floor, your hands shaking with the force of your frustration. "Handing me to some old lap dog, youâre out of your mind! I can't believe it, have some shame!."
For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you both, as Hosea stood there, his hand still frozen in the air where he'd offered you the scarf, his eyes full of something raw, hurt, frustration, confusion. Hosea opened his mouth, but no words came. His gaze softened, his lips parted as if he were trying to find something to say. But the words you had just spoken hung heavy in the air, too loud and too real to take back now.
"You think I want this for you?" he finally whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice strained with frustration. "I just want you safe, damn it. Safe."
"If you want that, then find someone else, someone normal. A proper suitor, maybe? A decent citizen? Like Mama would have wanted!"
"And you think a 'normal citizen,' or the rich kind you dream of marrying, wonât ask about our background? Wonât dig into our truth? You want something built on lies, instead of whatâs real? The most honest person you could have is right here, willing to do anything for you. I raised that boy, and I damn well know he will never disappoint me."
You rolled your eyes, fed up with another one of his lectures. "Yeah, because after spending half my life with outlaws, I've definitely lost the chance to be with anyone 'normal,' havenât I? Then I'd rather die alone! Every man here is raised by you in some way but that doesn't mean that I have to trust them let alone be with THEM! You are being delusional! Whatever--just give it back, for God's sake," you snapped, your voice thick with frustration as you turned away, trying to put distance between yourself and the scarf as if it could somehow erase the conversation.
Hosea didn't move to leave. He just stood there. After a long pause, he shook his head gently, as if reconciling himself with something painful. "No, no I won't. Gifts are not meant to be... given back."
He picked the scarf up, his hands cradling it carefully as if it were something fragile, and for a moment, you could see him lost in thought, his eyes distant, remembering something else.
"I remember... the first time I held you in my arms," he murmured, his voice softer now, the anger and frustration fading into something more vulnerable. "You were my gift, too. You still are."
Your heart stuttered for a moment, the memory of being held like that, cradled in his arms when you were small, a time before all the complexities of your relationship had gotten so tangled. The warmth of his embrace felt distant now, like a fading echo.
Or it's just his way of manipulation.
"Papa, please, why are you even siding with him-"
"Enough, because I know better and I know you better," he interrupted, his voice firm this time, though it cracked slightly with emotion. "Just keep it." His words hung in the air, and he turned to leave the tent but paused just before he stepped outside.
He looked back, his gaze meeting yours for a moment, something flickered in his eyes, something deep, filled with regret, but also resolve. "If I couldn't, or am unable to give you the life you want," he said softly, each word deliberate, "my heart says he will."
"Oh please, wait till you see when he kicks me out one day on your beloved Dutch's orders."
Hosea didnât respond right away. He just looked at you, his expression a mixture of sorrow and a kind of quiet resignation, before he finally turned and walked out of the tent.
He would never be able to make you understand that Arthur would be the last person to do that.
â˰
The days that followed felt heavier, like a fog had settled around you. Arthur's presence, once easily ignored, now seemed to infiltrate every corner of your space. He started lingering around more often, always appearing at the most inconvenient times when you and Hosea were sharing a quiet meal or having (tea/coffee). At first, you thought it was just a coincidence, maybe just a shared moment of camaraderie, but the more it happened, the more uncomfortable it made you.
Arthur wasnât doing anything overtly wrong, of course. He sat quietly, politely joining the conversation when spoken to, sipping coffee, offering a nod here and there.
It bothered you. You loathed it.
Is this some sort of indirect courting? Were you imagining things, or was this his way of trying to ingratiate himself with you? Was he trying to get Hosea's approval? To intimidate you? Or, perhaps, was it something more direct? Was he trying to... what, win you over? Hosea, for all his kindness and wisdom, didnât mind Arthurâs company, even encouraged it.
The words Hosea had said echoed in your mind, lingering like smoke. "If I couldnât, or am unable to give you the life you want, my heart says he will."
You scoffed internally, trying to push it away, but the more you thought about it, the more it gnawed at you. Was that really true? Hosea seemed to believe it, but you werenât so sure. Arthur? The golden boy of Dutchâs gang? Or was Hosea just trying to soften the blow, making it sound like there was hope when in reality there was none?
Why can't he get it that I don't want to stay here or get associated with anyone! Especially someone so older and worse the most obedient to Dutch of them all.
You rolled your eyes, staring out into the distance. And why the hell would he go after you? Out of all the people in the camp, why you?
It didnât make sense. None of it did.
Still, a small part of you wondered... Should you ask him?
But what if you were wrong? What if Hosea was just speaking out of some misplaced hope? You didnât know. And that uncertainty, it made you uncomfortable. Because you werenât one to be uncertain. You didn't like it.
He just wants someone young to play with now that he's lonely.
Arthur stared at the journal in his lap, the unfinished sketch of eyes glaring up at him, imperfect and frustrating. He let out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh, his pencil hovering over the page, but he couldnât seem to get it right. The eyes, those eyes, kept staring back at him, their gaze too empty, too raw. The frown on his face deepened as he bit his lip, his mind spiraling in frustration.
But that frown, that damn cute frown, it wouldn't fade. It never did. The curve of your lips when you were irritated or deep in thought, the way your brows furrowed as you focused on something else... It was almost intoxicating how endearing it was. Arthur couldnât stop thinking about it, and worse, he couldnât stop wanting to be the one to make that frown disappear.
If only you'd look at him once with a smile, he thought bitterly, the words tasting both sweet and impossible.
Because deep down, Arthur knew, he'd do anything. Heâd break the sky and bring the world to your feet if you ever gave him that smile.Â
He longed for that.
But no, thatâs just a dream, Arthur thought with a resigned sigh, closing his journal and resting his hands on his knees. You wouldnât even notice me that way. I'm just some damn fool in Dutchâs gang.
â˰
It was another evening, quiet, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the occasional crackle of the campfire. You were chopping vegetables at the makeshift table, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood filling the air. Hosea sat a few feet away on an overturned crate, sipping his coffee with a watchful but calm expression.
Arthur appeared at the edge of the clearing, his hat tilted low and his hands shoved into his pockets. You barely glanced at him, focused on your task.
âEveninâ,â Arthur mumbled, his voice unusually hesitant.
Hosea nodded in acknowledgment, setting his cup down. âEvening, Arthur.â
Arthur glanced at you, then back at Hosea. His jaw worked for a moment, as though wrestling with what
And then you heard the words. Full of hesitation.
âI was wonderinâ... if I could take her out. Just, ya know, get her outta this camp for a bit. I figure... she could use some air.â His words hung in the air, but his eyes seemed distant, almost like he was hoping for a miracle.
Wow, just great. They are going to pretend that I am not even here now huh?
And you hadnât been in the mood for any of this. "I am absolutely fine staying here, got it?"
Arthurâs jaw tightened as he stared at your hunched frame, your defiance practically radiating off you. His voice softened, though there was a trace of frustration. âYouâre not fine. Not always, and not here.â
âWhat do you know about what I need, huh? You think you can just waltz in here and decide things for me? I said I am not going so I am not!â
Arthur took a step back, but not because he was intimidated. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. âAinât about me decidinâ nothinâ. You donât even gotta like me. But you deserve better than to keep hiding in this damn camp, snappin' at everyone tryin' to care for you.â
 "Youâve got some nerve asking me that. I don't need anyone taking me anywhere. Just 'cause you brought me a damn scarf doesnât mean I owe you a thing."
Arthur seemed to bristle at your sharp reaction, but Hosea leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, studying the both of you with a quiet smile. He wasnât offended, he understood.
Your glare didnât falter, but Hosea cleared his throat before you could respond. âHeâs got a point, my dear.â His tone was calm, and measured. âA little ride wonât kill you.â
You crossed your arms. âI said no Papa and that means, NO. Stop forcing things on me."
And of course, Hosea didn't miss your taunt and somehow Arthur too.
The younger male stepped closer again, his voice lower now, almost pleading. âI ain't Dutch. I ainât gonna force ya into anything. But sometimes, you gotta trust someoneâs tryinâ to help, even if it donât make sense at first.. Just...give me a chance...please.â
Before you could reply, the unmistakable sound of Dutchâs boots approached. âWell, isnât this cozy,â Dutch drawled, stepping into the space with a deliberate slowness that made everyone tense. He looked from Arthur to you, a sly smile curling on his lips. âArthur, youâre not causinâ any trouble now, are you?â
âJust talkinâ. Nothinâ more.â
Dutchâs gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile growing sharper. âTalkinâ, huh? Always knew you had a soft spot, Arthur. You got that puppy-dog look about you. But...you sure youâre barkinâ up the right tree here?â
The air went cold, and you froze, your grip tightening on the knife in your hand. Dutchâs words stung, a mixture of insult and insinuation that made your face burn with anger and shame.
âDutch,â Hosea interjected, standing up from his crate, his tone calm but firm. âC'mon...don't say that."
Dutch laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. âAlright, alright. Iâll leave yâall to it. Just a little friendly advice, Arthur. Watch where you step. You wouldnât want to trip.â With that, he turned on his heel and sauntered off, his laughter echoing behind him. Hosea shot Arthur a brief look before following after Dutch, likely to smooth things over or ensure the situation didnât escalate further.
Arthur lingered awkwardly near the table. His fingers toyed with the brim of his hat, his eyes darting between you and the ground as though he couldnât quite decide where to settle. He hesitated, his hand lifting slightly as if to reach out to you, his face a mix of guilt and frustration. âLook, I-â
"What? Just go away."
Arthur flinched, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. âDidnât mean to bother you,â he muttered, his voice low and almost apologetic. âJust...ignore what he said.â
"But what he said was right."
"No, it wasn't." He looked up then, the defensiveness clear as day in his eyes. âIt ainât like that,â he said, his voice firmer now. âDutch--he just likes to run his mouth. Donât mean nothinâ.â
âDoesnât it? You didnât exactly deny it back there.â
âLook, I ainât tryinâ to make your life harder. I thought maybe... I donât know. Thought youâd wanna get out for a bit. Thought it might help.â
âHelp with what, exactly?â You gestured around you, exasperated.
âI just⊠I thought itâd be nice. Thought maybe youâd... enjoy it.â
âEnjoy it? Arthur, I donât even know what youâre trying to do here. Why youâre trying so hard.â
His jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides before relaxing again. âMaybe I am tryinâ, donât know why you think thatâs a crime.â
âI didnât ask for any of it, I didnât ask for you or anyone to care.â
He laughed softly, a bitter sound that barely reached his lips. âYeah. I know. But it ainât somethinâ I can help. Believe me, Iâve tried.â
âYouâre making it more complicated, you know.â
âMaybe,â he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. âBut Iâd rather be here makinâ things complicated than not be here at all.â
You didnât know what to do with him, with any of this. So you did what you always did, you deflected.
âIâve got work to do,â you said, pushing off the crate and brushing past him towards the wagon. As you walked past him, your voice cut through the heavy silence, sharp as always.
"Why donât you take all this energy and use it on something worthwhile? Perhaps finding the right tree." You chuckled tauntingly as you went inside the wagon.
He didnât try to stop you, didnât say anything else, not wanting to draw too much attention to the scene. With a heavy sigh, he decided to go for a ride.
â˰
When he returned later that night, most of the camp was either finishing up their dinner, indulging in late-night games, or sitting quietly by the fire.
He didnât sense your presence anywhere, and he figured you were probably in your tent, finally savoring some solitude after a long day of work and being surrounded by the others. But he also knew that Dutchâs words from earlier werenât easy to shake off, especially for you. Your blood was likely still boiling. Worse, you must be hurt too.
Taking advantage of everyone being preoccupied, his steps naturally gravitated toward your tent, your sanctuary. A place he had only ever dared to dream of being close to. What was it like inside? He often wondered. Would the air inside smell faintly of you? Would he ever be someone who belonged in your space? He imagined a future where he could step into it freely, with no hesitation, no uncertainty. A time when he wouldnât even need to knock when he could enter with a smile on his face and a gift in his hand, your relationship so natural and warm that it felt like home.
But maybe that was the point. You didnât need anyone in that space, and a part of him liked that. Liked that you existed here, hidden away, out of reach of the worldâs harsh gaze. It wasnât fair or right, but it soothed something deep and primal in him. If he had his way, the world would never touch you. Youâd stay tucked away where only he could find you as if this tent was built for the two of you alone. Still, it wasnât enough. He wanted to see you in his world, in his tent, on his bed, wrapped up in everything that was his.
Hidden away, yes, but hidden with him.
He cleared his throat, his eyes too shy to even glance fully inside, though the tent flap hung half-open.
"Who is it now?"
"Me... I--uh...can I?"
A soft, irritated sound followed, then your voice gave reluctant confirmation. âLeave the flap wide open.â
He obeyed, pushing the fabric aside, the cool night air spilling in. Then he stood there like a fool, frozen for several seconds as his eyes found you sitting on the edge of the cot, one leg bouncing with impatience. Enchanting nonetheless.
âWell? What now?â
The sharpness of your tone jolted him back to his senses. For a moment, he still couldnât believe youâd allowed him inside. Maybe you were too tired to step out yourself, but he couldnât help feeling grateful anyway.
Taking a cautious step closer, his gaze drifted and landed on the scarf in the corner, dangling from the back of a chair.
At least you kept it.
You kept it.
That was enough for him.
Without a momentâs hesitation, he dropped to his knee in front of you, his height aligning perfectly with yours now. The act wasnât one of submission but of devotion, a silent acknowledgment that your hatred, cold and unyielding, loomed larger than the fire of his love. And yet, he stayed there, resolute.
If he had to kneel to earn even a fragment of your gaze, he would. If being this close meant bearing the weight of your disdain, so be it. Because in this moment, it wasnât his pride that mattered, it was you.
Your first instinct was shock. His sudden closeness threw you off, but as the silence stretched and his hesitation became almost unbearable, you decided to speak, cutting through the tension.
âI think youâre only acting like this because Dutch reckons itâs the best way to keep me in line. So that you can scare me or something. Yâknow, keep me stuck in this camp so Paâs happy, Dutch is happy, and my life here is just that much more miserable.â
Arthurâs brows furrowed immediately, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. âNo,â he said firmly, his voice quiet but resolute. âIt ainât like that. It ainât even close to that.â
He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he searched for the right words. âDo I look like someone whoâd think that way? Or...whoâd go along with somethinâ like that? Do you really think Hosea would do that to you? Think about you like that?â
âYou ainât some animal we gotta control, alright? Youâre...more than that. Always have been."
Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. âI know...thereâs a whole lotta differences between us. But...I canât help myself, yâknow? Iâve tried. Lord knows Iâve tried.â His words faltered, and he cursed under his breath.
Damn, I forgot half of what I wanted to say.
You tilted your head, watching him struggle. Internally finding it quite entertaining in a way.
He took a deep breath and pressed on, his voice quieter but no less earnest. âI donât deserve this, I know that. Hell, you donât deserve this, either. But one thing I can promise you, right here, right now...Iâll make this better. Iâll try every damn day to make your life here bearable, to give you somethinâ better. Until...â
He stopped himself, biting back the words he wasnât sure you were ready to hear. âUntil I can give you somethinâ far better than all this.â
He paused, his jaw tightening before he met your eyes again. âAnd no one, not a damn soul, will have the guts to disrespect you here. Not while Iâm around.â
â....Not even Dutch?â
Arthur swallowed hard, but he nodded firmly. âYeah....not even him.â
Without thinking, he reached out and grasped your hands, his touch rough but grounding. He held on like it was the only thing tethering him to the moment, his eyes searching yours for any sign of trust, of understanding, of...hope.
"But why though? All of a sudden? And me?"
"I...wish I knew. But I am helpless right now. Helpless against these questions and these...feelings."
His eyes searched yours, desperate and pleading, but your words cut through him like a knife.
âIf this is all true, then...why didnât your lover, what was her name? Oh yeah, Mary, who even loved you, stick around?â
Arthur flinched as if youâd struck him. His heart trembled at the weight of your words, your tone unclear, was it innocent? Genuine? Or just plain cruel?
"That...that was different."
âOkay but if she didnât trust you enough to stay, then why should I? Weâre not even-â
He moved before you could finish, his jaw tightening as he stood. With a single step, he reached for the scarf draped over the chair. Silent and deliberate, he placed it on the bed beside you, his every motion measured.
You watched him, confused and uncertain, as he pulled a few crumpled bills from his pocket. He smoothed them flat and placed them in the middle of the scarf. His hands moved deftly, folding the fabric around the money with a care that felt almost reverent.
Finally, he turned to you, kneeling once more. His rough, calloused hands gently wrapped around yours, closing your fingers firmly over the bundle. His touch was warm, grounding, yet carried the weight of something far greater.
âHere, this...this is the only proof I can give you. Iâll keep fillinâ it, day by day, until weâve got enough to leave. And youâll keep it safe. Youâll keep it with you. It's yours. Only yours."
And I am too.
"I know...that the money is not gonna come from honest ways which you hate of course, but...there's no other way it can be done...but it will be done, alright?"
His breath hitched as he leaned closer, his shadow falling over you like a shroud. The proximity made your heart thrum unevenly, though youâd never admit it.
You stared at the scarf in your hands, his grip firm but trembling ever so slightly. You couldnât bring yourself to look up, to meet his eyes. A dozen questions churned in your mind, your heart caught between disbelief and something else you couldnât name.
Why was he doing this? Why for you? Damn, you never pegged him for such a fool. Well...does this mean you will at least get to escape this hell if you just close your eyes and accept whatever this is?
Mhm...not bad of a deal.
It was as if he could sense the weight of your weariness. His voice softened, low and earnest.
âI just want you to greet me every time I come backâŠand every time I go. With that smile of yours.â He paused, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the vulnerability of his words was too much. âThatâs all I ask of you...thatâs all this idiot asks of you.â
And to have you in my arms every night.
The thought came unbidden, a longing too deep and too dangerous to voice aloud.
No. It was too much to ask.
You blinked at him, caught off guard, your lips parting slightly as if to respond. âUm...I don't--â You cleared your throat, but the words still wouldnât come.
When you finally looked up, he saw it, emotions swirling in your eyes, unguarded for once. Fear, confusion, a flicker of nervousness. But there was something else, something softer, something innocent buried beneath it all. His heart, racing only moments ago, steadied as if your gaze alone could calm him.
Unable to stop himself, he leaned closer, closing the space between you. His lips brushed the top of your head in a tender kiss, one that lingered longer than it should have.
You flinched a little but didn't pull away, and that, to him, was enough. A sign of acceptance, no matter how small.
The scent of your hair, the warmth of your presence, it was intoxicating. For the first time, he felt hope unfurling in his chest. It wasnât much, but it was something.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours once more. He didnât say anything else, not wanting to break the fragile moment, and instead rose to his feet. His shadow stretched across the tent as he turned toward the flap, his steps deliberate and slow.
And just before he stepped out into the night, he glanced over his shoulder. âGoodnight, darlinâ.â
Tonight, he might finally be able to sleep.
Arthur lay down on his cot, an idiotic smile tugging at his lips as he stared at the hat resting on the table. It wasnât just a hat, it was your approval, your silent acknowledgment, your acceptance. For the first time in a long while, he felt...hopeful.
And now, he thought, heâd finally be able to wear it.
â˰
The outlaw's gaze drifted to the sketches, one was complete, your softer expression, that innocent curiosity you had when your guard wasnât up. The other remained unfinished, a portrait of your infamous frown. Not that he hated it, hell, that frown had a charm of its own, sharp and stubborn. But something about leaving it incomplete felt right. He decided it would remain that way. He didnât want to immortalise that side of you, not in his art or heart.
Arthur reached for the softer sketch, running a thumb over the lines as if touching the paper could bring you closer to him. He studied it, his heart aching with an almost unbearable tenderness.
No, you deserved better. You deserved to keep smiling. And if it took him a lifetime to make that happen, so be it.
Hosea watched from a distance, a quiet smile tugging at the corners of his lips as Arthur hugged your stiff form, bidding you farewell. He observed the way Arthur's demeanour had softened, the usual rough edges of the man becoming more relaxed in your presence. The smile and the way he tipped his hat to you before mounting the horse were enough to confirm the change that had occurred in him.
Arthur's gaze briefly flicked over to where Hosea stood, his eyes meeting the older manâs. With a small, almost sheepish nod of acknowledgment, Arthur gave a quick tip of his head. It was subtle, but Hosea had known him long enough to recognize the shift in his posture, the lightness in his eyes.
The mentor's smile deepened, though there was a softness to it that spoke of more than just amusement. It was the kind of smile a father would give when he saw something unexpected in a child, something tender, something hopeful.
It was good to see Arthur's content again. What truly surprised him, though, was that it was his daughter who had made it possible after all this time. The last person he imagined to ever do that and that made him chuckle quietly.
A match made in heaven indeed...

(AN: âąâ©âą u better interact for high honour++)
#arthur morgan#arthur morgan x female reader#rdr2 arthur#arthur morgan x you#arthur morgan x reader#domestic fluff#fluff#angst#lovesick#possessive#yandere obsession#obsessive#obsessive love#rdr2 community#rdr2#yandere rdr2#hosea matthews#van der linde gang#red dead redemption#dutch van der linde#rdr2 hosea#red dead redemption hosea#darling core#yandere x darling#darlingcore#yancore#yanblr#arthur morgan angst#arthur morgan fluff#rdr2 dutch
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teasing abby not on purpose but kind of on purpose⊠nsfw.
you knew as soon as your sink started acting weird you were gonna be screwed. it was only a matter of time until the stupid thing broke, and then youâd have to call your annoying ass landlord to call an even more annoying maintenance company to come fix it.
which you knew they never would. for some reason they loved to schedule people to come fix things in the middle of the day when you had to go to work, then blaming you for being five minutes late like you didnât cause three traffic accidents just to get over there.
but now, as your broken sink is spouting water like a fire hydrant and youâre soaked from head to toe, you find yourself with only two choices. and you choose the hotter one.
you hadn't been seeing abby for long, only officially dating for around a few weeks at this point. but she was sweet, strong, and exceptionally good with her hands. she'd offered to help build a mounted shelf you were looking at on amazon last week, so you figured she had to have at least some experience with fixing things, right?
you only start to realize the mental jump you took when she's laughing at you over the phone, telling you she doesn't have much plumbing experience but she'll do what she can. really, its no problem, she's right down the street.
until you heard a knock at your door less than four minutes later while you were trying to take every towel you had to put on the floor, hoping to avoid an altercation with your neighbor below you for flooding her and her four secret cats.
so that's the only reason you open the door and give abby a view of you with a soaked-through tank top and no bra. truly, the only reason.
it's not like anyone can blame you when you get her reaction. she's notoriously not subtle at anything, and its intensity is dialed up to a twenty-five as she stared at the wet fabric barely hiding your nipples, only brought out of it when you snap your fingers and loudly clear your throat to bring her attention to how shes supposed to be helping you with your problem.
she was really selling herself short, setting herself in front of the sink and fixing whatever the problem was in less than ten minutes. itâs funny how her eyes keep darting to you when she reaches for some tools, wondering why on earth you hadnât changed yet because there was no way you were going to suffer in a tiny cold shirt just to rile her up, right?
wrong. weâre you discreetly shivering when she would turn away and start doing her thing again? yes. was it worth it just to see the way her arms flexed as she tightened and pulled and how the muscles in her back showed through her ridiculously tight topâŠ
once she finishes she helps you with cleaning up the mess, mopping up any excess water and removing any towels that have been soaked through, piling them in your washer and starting the cycle. when she comes back to your room she feels like her heart is going to leap out of her chest because youâre still wearing the damn shirt.
âseriously?â she raises her brow, crossing her arms and fighting off the urge to smirk when she notices how your eyes track them.
âwhat? i like this shirt, has a nice neckline.â
youâre smiling, and then sheâs smiling, and then sheâs crossing the room in a second and pushing you down on the bed-
but itâs obvious that she agreed with you - it was a cute shirt. which is why she only pushes the neckline down to suck and bite at your chest until youâre nearly crying and begging for her instead of taking the whole thing off.
âwhatâs the matter? you were teasing me so much, canât i return the favor?â her words are mumbled as she bites into the side of your breast, laugh reverberating in her chest at your gasp and the jerk of your leg held under her hand.
but luckily for you abby was sweet and way too pent up, so it wasnât long before she was shoving her hand into your pants and stuffing her fingers inside you, face still planted in your boobs as she brought you to a strong orgasm. and then another. and then another.
yeah. you were glad you didnât call your landlord.
horny work daydreams are not a game
#abby anderson x reader#abby anderson#abby#tlou#abby x reader#abby anderson x you#abby anderson fluff#abby anderson smut#tlou x reader
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đđđđđđ đđ đđđ? | chapter thirteen
đ©đđąđ«đąđ§đ : art donaldson x female!reader x patrick zweig đŹđźđŠđŠđđ«đČ: youâve always been content being second place to your best friend tashi duncan, waiting for the day you can quit tennis. your world is upended when you meet art and patrick, and youâre forced to embrace a life in the sport youâve been too afraid to claim for yourself. đ°đšđ«đ đđšđźđ§đ: 6.7k đ°đđ«đ§đąđ§đ (đŹ): challengers content warnings, descriptions of anxiety, swearing, use of y/n đ§đšđđ: hi my loves iâm back!! thank you all for your patience while i was sick and preparing for the new semester, i appreciate all your kind messages so much x đ©đ«đđŻ | đ§đđ±đ
đđđđđđđđđ đđđđđđâ đ
đđđđ â đđđđ đ, đđđđÂ
âNewcomer on the professional tennis scene, Y/N Y/L/N surprised virtually everyone when she won the Ladiesâ Semi Final two days ago,â an English-accented sports journalist said on TV as you waited for your cue to step onto the court for the finals. âSheâs not only the most technically excellent player of her age, but she has the fastest serve on the WTA tour.â
âSheâs a remarkable player,â the other journalist agreed. You watched them play back a clip from your most recent match, highlighting one of your aces. âBut if she wants to win on Centre Court here at Wimbledon for the very first time, sheâs going to have to start embracing her volleys. Maybe she should take a leaf out of her boyfriendâs book.â
âPatrick Zweig? He only made it to the second round!â
âYes, but he played some very entertaining tennis this week. It was a joy to watch and very well suited to a grass court!âÂ
âItâs true, Zweig plays a sneaky game of tennis. He keeps his opponent on his feet.âÂ
âIn any case, the whole world is sure to be watching Y/N Y/L/N tonight, eager to see her take on Anna Mueller.â
âNow, this isnât the first time Y/L/N and Mueller have played. They faced off numerous times in junior tournaments, and Y/L/N already beat her at Indian Wells, Milan, Roland-Garros, and the US Open last year. They have yet to play each other in a final, though, and Y/L/N has no grand slam titles to Muellerâs two.â
âWill it be experience and longevity that give Mueller the win, or will new talent Y/L/N take the match with precision and speed?â
âWe will soon see.â
You had never been this nervous before a match until your second time at Wimbledon.Â
For the first time in your professional career, just a year and a half after entering the tennis world, you made it to the final round of a grand slam tournament. The other tournaments you had won within the last year put your name on the map, allowing you to garner attention and recognition from your peers and spectators.
But a grand slam title meant you would be a part of history.
It was everything you wanted, everything you worked and struggled for. Your heart pounded so quickly that you thought it might leap out of your skin, and your quickening breath made spots appear in your vision. The pressure mounted, not just because your life goal was an armâs length away, but from all the people who had their eyes on you. Some scrutinising, some rooting for you.Â
Bracing your hands on your thighs, you closed your eyes and tried to breathe deeply. It felt like you were losing control. Everything you did to maintain your anxiety felt like it was slipping through your fingers, just like your dream of becoming a grand slam winner.Â
Tashiâs voice rang in your ears. Youâre going to be fucking miserable, and youâre going to hate your life just as much as your mother hates the fact that she had you. Artâs voice joined Tashi. Everyone knows that tennis is more of a mental game than a physical game. You have a lot of anxiety, andâŠ
The sound of your phone getting a text message interrupted your tornado of negative thoughts.Â
PAT đ: Donât listen to any of those assholes, they donât matter. I love you so much and Iâm proud of you no matter what happens today. Hold your head up high and do your best, nothing else matters. Donât forget to breathe, pretty girl. P x
As you stepped onto the court, the cheers of the crowd were deafening. You could feel the vibrations of their applause through the soles of your shoes; the energy was electric, and the buzzing of quiet chatter set you on edge. Remembering Patrickâs advice, you breathed deeply and waved to the crowd, smiling as you headed for your bench. Everyone on your team was sitting in the playerâs box with Patrick and your dad, and it was a relief to see them there supporting you.Â
âLadies and gentlemen, welcome to this final round match. This match will be played as the best of three sets,â the umpire said. âTo the left of the chair, from Switzerland, Anna Mueller. To the right of the chair, from the United States, Y/N Y/L/N. Y/L/N won the toss and elected to serve.â
From his seat in your box, Patrick chuckled. âI bet Anna Muellerâs terrified right now,â he commented. âGoing into a match against Y/N and having her serve first would push me over the edge if I was playing her.âÂ
Next to Patrick, your father happily declared, âIf Mueller wasnât nervous to play Y/N before, she will be once she realises how many aces she has up her sleeve.â
Mueller crouched behind the baseline, nervously twirling her racket between her hands. Her poker face wasnât nearly as good as yours, betraying her fear as you bounced the ball and prepared to serve. Knowing that you had this effect on your opponent, even before the game had started, made you feel powerful.Â
With a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through your veins, you tossed the ball in the air and served it over the tennis net. Mueller ran in the wrong direction, expecting you to serve to her backhand, and cursed when she couldnât change courses fast enough to return the ball.
Your first ace of the game. 15-love.
Mueller played nervously. She knew your baseline game was strong, but her mistake was assuming that you could only play from the baseline. You decided to play closer to the net, consistently hitting gently when Mueller expected you to go hard and fast, making it impossible for her to generate the power needed to return well.
When you took the first set 6-0, Mueller cursed and turned to her box to yell something at her coach. During the changeover, you could hear her muttering to herself, failing to compose her posture and expression. She looked panicked and angry. From experience, you knew that the right amount of anxiety could help you focus on the match, but anger would destroy a playerâs self-control and concentration.
When you served an ace at the beginning of the next set, Mueller stomped her foot angrily and challenged the call. The call held up, declaring your serve was in and awarding you the point. You watched in shock as Muellerâs face twisted with fury, her eyes blazing as she smashed her racket against the ground. Over and over again, the crowd gasped and booed as the frame cracked and the strings bent out of shape.Â
âCode violation, racket abuse. Warning, Mueller.âÂ
From his seat, Patrick smirked, applauding the action while you maintained professionalism. He was the type of player who occasionally broke his racket or committed other code violations, so Patrick admired your ability to hold back. There was something rewarding about watching your opponent fall apart as you waited for her to get it together so you could keep playing.Â
The atmosphere of the game changed after Muellerâs outburst. Releasing her anger had done Mueller well, and one of her backhands shot forth like a lightning bolt, making it impossible for you to return. She got a few points in, making you run for it. Sweat glistened on your brows, and your heart pounded, a steady drum beat that echoed the rhythm of your feet as you struggled to return some of Muellerâs balls. The crowd watched in awe as she started finding her rhythm, pushing through the fatigue with a newfound unwavering focus.Â
Mueller looked incredibly smug to have caught up with you. So, you let her win a little bit.Â
Your father frowned when you served into the net twice, giving Mueller the point. âWhatâs she doing?â he muttered quietly. âAre the nerves getting to her?â
Patrick shook his head, chuckling as he realised, âSheâs throwing the set on purpose.â A smirk graced his lips when he remembered how you used to do the same thing when you played Tashi. âShe wants Mueller to think sheâs beating her.â
You let yourself enjoy it, toying with Mueller and never letting her know what you planned next. When you volleyed the ball back to her, she sprinted to the net. Just when she got used to playing close to the net, you hit a flat groundstroke past her. Once Mueller realised your pattern, she stayed closer to the baseline, and you hit her with your drop shots, far too close to the net for her to return.
Quickly, you caught up, 7-7. You needed one last game to win the match, and it was your turn to serve.Â
Two aces in a row. Mueller yelled in frustration and anger when she missed both serves, once to her forehand and once to her backhand. Your focus sharpened with each passing moment. Serving was your area of expertise. You had the match exactly where you wanted it.Â
With each point you won, your confidence grew. Your movements were fluid and instinctive; your racket felt like an extension of your arm, sending powerful, precise shots that left Mueller scrambling to return them. Like always, your serves were lightning fast, unerring and spectacular, kissing the line every time without fail.Â
Mueller chased down every ball, but exhaustion was setting in, and her anger had returned. She was irritated that you had let her win, annoyed that it had boosted her ego so much, and furious that she couldnât get in your head the way you got in hers.Â
You were playing the best tennis of your life, each moment a testament to your skill and resilience over the years. The beauty of your game captivated the spectators, leaving the crowd in awe of your mesmerising strokes and masterful returns. The more points you won, the closer you got to winning the tournament. Tension and excitement were palpable, mounting in a crescendo of enthusiastic applause and standing ovations.
âMatch point.âÂ
The cacophony of cheers faded into the background as you bounced the ball in your hand. You were good at keeping the pressure of winning off your shoulders, but the enormity of this point pressed down on you heavily. With your stomach in knots, you adjusted your grip on your tennis racket. Amid all the stress, anxiety, and fear, you felt a spark of determination.Â
You didnât just want to win; you deserved it.Â
You served her backhand, which Mueller anticipated and hit back with equal intensity. The ball hit the ground awkwardly on your side of the net, creating minimal bounce with little power. Regardless, you hit it hard. As the two of you rallied back and forth, you followed the sports journalist from earlierâs advice and used a trick shot Patrick had taught you. When Mueller hit your forehand, you pretended to miss the ball. She celebrated, prematurely stopping while you hit the ball back between your legs, surprising Mueller and making her trip as she tried to return the ball.Â
As Mueller landed on the floor, the ball bounced on her side of the net for a second time, earning you the point and the Wimbledon Ladiesâ Singles title.Â
An overwhelming surge of triumph and disbelief hit you all at once. Your ears rang, drowning out the cacophony of the crowdâs ecstatic roars as you collapsed to your knees, dropping your racket. The weight of victory crashed upon you, and tears streamed down your face as you sobbed. Each teardrop released the intense pressure and emotion you had carried through the gruelling tournament.Â
You cried for your mother, who you no longer needed to please; for Tashi, your former best friend who would not be here to celebrate this moment with you; and you cried for yourself, the person who got through it all and made it to the other side.Â
When you wiped the tears from your cheeks and stood to shake your opponentâs hand, the world around you blurred back into focus. The cheers and applause of the crowd went from being a distant echo to a deafening roar. Mueller barely touched your hand before going to shake the umpireâs andâfor a brief, solitary momentâyou were enveloped by a profound sense of accomplishment.Â
You did it.
After waving to the crowd and thanking the umpire, you turned to your playerâs box. There, Patrick stood applauding your victory. His heart swelled with immeasurable pride and love for you, feeling an overwhelming admiration for your strength and dedication. You laughed, running across the court towards the box and excusing yourself as you squeezed past ball boys and line judges. Stepping up on one of the nearby benches, you lifted yourself closer to your boyfriend, who leaned over the railing, giggling.
Up close, Patrickâs eyes were misty, and a broad, genuine smile spread across his face. Every sacrifice you made, every early morning and late night, came rushing back to him in a flood of memories. He could hardly contain his excitement.Â
âYou just fucking won Wimbledon!â Patrick yelled. âYou were incredible!â
âI love you,â you replied, equally breathless and giddy. âI couldnât have done it without you, Pat.âÂ
Pushing up on your toes, you hooked your arms around Patrickâs shoulders and kissed him. The crowd cheered even louder around you, but you didnât care. Nothing and nobody else mattered at that moment. All you knew was that you had just achieved something incredible and Patrick was the only person you wanted to celebrate it with. He held your head carefully and kissed you hard, expressing his passionate pride with every press of his lips.
âThank you. For reminding me to breathe,â you acknowledged when you parted, gazing up at your boyfriend with sparkling eyes. âAnd for teaching me your favourite trick shot.â
Patrick chuckled, taking one of your hands and pressing several kisses to the back of it. âThat was all you, gorgeous. I had nothing to do with it. This win belongs to you,â he said sincerely. âFuck, I love you, pretty girl.â
Art Donaldson stood in the crowd, his heart heavy with pride and melancholy as he watched you give Patrick a final kiss before returning to the court for your interview. It was a privilege to watch every powerful swing of your racket and every point you earned. Art was reminded of the countless hours you had poured into your practice, the determination that had always driven you while you were at Stanford. He had once been the one to share in those moments of victory with you, celebrating every win with the joy you now showed on the court.Â
But now, as Art saw the happiness in your eyes and heard the crowdâs cheers, a wave of sadness washed over him. He was no longer part of your triumphs. He was just another face in the sea of supporters, knowing your victory wouldnât be shared with him.
Artâs gaze flickered between you standing on the court and Patrick sitting with your father in the playerâs box. His former best friend looked happier than Art had ever seen him, and knowing that your memory of this day would always be intertwined with your relationship with Patrick filled Art with an ugly jealousy.Â
He knew he had no right to your life and joy, but Art wanted to celebrate with you. He wanted to tell you that he was proud of you and always knew you had the talent and perseverance to succeed. In fact, there were a lot of things Art wanted to say, including a sincere apology for what he said the night you broke up. But you had moved on, and you were happy, and the last thing Art wanted to do was ruin any of that for you.Â
So instead, Art got up and pushed through the crowd, making his way to the exit as he heard your voice thanking Patrick for his love and support over the loudspeakers.
đđđđđđđđđđ đđđđ â đđđđđđ đđ, đđđđ
It felt good.Â
Sitting in the booth with Tashi was almost like when Art used to sit in the dining hall with her at Stanford, back when you, Art, and Tashi were all attached at the hip.
A month ago, Art and Tashi graduated and began working in the professional tennis world, but it meant nothing to either of them without their best friends by their sides. Neither of them could have guessed that you and Patrick would leave behind such a huge hole when you stopped being friends with them.
âMaybe you wanna jump ship?â Art said, half-joking as he signed the bill and paid for their meal. âCome be my assistant coach?â When Tashi stared dumbfoundedly at him, he grinned. âOh, I get it. You want to work with someone who has a little bit more potential.âÂ
âNo!â Tashi protested. âNo. No, itâs not that. I mean, you have plenty of potential. Itâs justââ she cut herself off, nervously observing the blond sitting in front of her. It had been years since you and Art broke up, but it felt like yesterday. âYou think that would be a good idea?âÂ
âWhy not?â Art retorted. Tashi gestured vaguely, referencing their complex shared past. âThat was a long time agoââÂ
ââIt was not that long ago,â she disagreed, interrupting Artâs attempt at nonchalance.Â
âWell, it feels like a long time ago,â Art mumbled.Â
âSo, youâre saying youâre not in love with her anymore?â Tashi argued, raising a questioning eyebrow at her old friend.Â
Art schooled his expression, not wanting to give his lingering emotions away. But Tashi saw through it, recognising the familiar signs that indicated his love for you still ran deep. His features softened at the mention of you, and there was a faraway look in his icy blue eyes.
Back when you were dating Artâand Tashi and Patrick were casually seeing each otherâPatrick used to describe the look on his best friendâs face when he first laid eyes on you. That look of pure, absolute adoration and love never once faded from Artâs face at the mention or sight of you. Tashi knew with certainty that it would never fade.
âWell, Iâm not holding my breath waiting for her,â Art retorted. âThat ship has clearly sailed.â
âDoesnât mean you arenât clutching the hull for dear life,â Tashi remarked, using Artâs ship analogy against him. âDid you see her at Wimbledon?â
âOf course I did,â Art replied, fiddling anxiously with the napkin on the table.Â
âShe was incredible, wasnât she? I mean, I always knew she had it in her, but watching her win that finalâŠâ Tashi sighed.
If she was as good a friend to you as she always thought, she would have noticed that you used to hold back to help Tashi pursue her dreams of being the best tennis player in the world. Upon reflection, Tashi realised she would never be as good a friend to you as you were to her, and she should never have considered you to be less talented, hard-working, or capable than herself.
âIt was like nothing Iâve ever seen before,â Tashi said proudly.
Art agreed, âSheâs officially a grand slam winner, the whole world was watching her that day.â
Tashi nodded. âItâs weird, isnât it?â Her lips curved in a disappointed frown, recalling all the times you and Tashi promised you would always be there to celebrate each othersâ accomplishments when you were teenagers. âAll of a sudden, the whole world feels entitled to a part of her. Instead of going through this journey with her, weâre on the outside looking in, just like everybody else.â
âIt was pretty surreal,â Art affirmed. âI mean, I always knew what she was capable of. I remember all those late nights, talking about what she would do if she ever won a grand slam. And now that she has, I canât help but feel a little lost.â
âLike you should be there with her,â Tashi guessed. She gave Art a sympathetic smile, her eyes soft with understanding. âI know exactly what you mean.â
Art sighed, leaning back in his booth. âWe used to be the people who knew her best in the world,â he recalled. âAnd now, we arenât a part of her life anymore. Itâs not just about tennis or success, itâs about her. She didnât just hold us all together, she was seeped into the essence of everything I did and everything I dreamed.â The vulnerable honesty in Artâs voice made Tashi swallow harshly. âWhat am I supposed to do without her now? None of my plans ever accounted for me reaching this point in my life without her in it.â
Artâs words rendered them both silent.
You used to take up so much space in their lives, filling a void neither of them knew existed until you left them. Thinking about you and reflecting on your absence was always bittersweet. There was so much warmth and joy in their memories of you, but they were constantly paired with painful reminders of how much they hurt you. You, who only ever wanted to love and be loved.Â
âMaybe this is what we deserve for hurting her in the first place,â Tashi offered. âThe things I said to her that dayââ she inhaled sharply, pain filling her chest as she recalled the argument that ended your friendshipâ âI donât blame her for wanting nothing to do with me.â
âThe look on her face when I told her I went to see you the night you foughtâŠâ Art shook his head in disappointment, his jaw clenched tightly as the frustration simmered beneath the surface. âI should have told her I went to confront you for hurting her. I should have told her I was desperate to figure out why she was inconsolable, but I let her believe I went to you because I was on your side. I was so angry and frustrated during the break up that I told her things just because I knew they would hurt her. Who does that to someone they love?â
âUs, apparently,â Tashi said, grumbling like she couldnât believe what they did to you. Reaching across the table, Tashi covered Artâs hand with hers, offering a small, bittersweet smile. âMy mom says that Y/N was my life lesson,â she explained. âThat losing her was supposed to teach me something.â
âYeah?â Art met her eyes and frowned. âWhat did it teach you?â
âTo hold on,â Tashi declared. âWhen you meet someone like her, someone whoâs warm and loving and far kinder to you than you deserve, you hold on to her. Because going through life without her is unimaginably worse than when sheâs by your side.âÂ
It hurt to reflect on how much worse life was without you. You had been everything to Art for so long, and his eyes stung with tears every time he thought of you. The emptiness you left behind felt insurmountable, a constant ache he couldnât escape. Every moment without you reminded him of what heâd lost, of how your presence had once filled his world with light and purpose.
Now, that light was gone, leaving him to navigate the shadows of what used to be; the pain of your absence was a relentless companion.
Art pulled his hand away and cleared his throat, staring at his lap. âThis is really stupid, but, uh⊠After your injury⊠I couldnât help but just think about what would have happened if I had beaten Patrick,â he confessed.Â
Tashi froze at the mention of how you met Art and Patrick.Â
She knew Art well enough to understand that everything he did led back to you and how he lost you. No matter how badly Art wanted to change the past, Tashi knew you would always love him and Patrick throughout your life.Â
In a way, Tashi, Art, and Patrick were the three great loves of your life.
One for a friendship that was supposed to last a lifetime, one for the boy who made you realise what it was like to be loved, and one for the man who would wait a lifetime just for a minute of happiness with you.
No matter how much you once loved Art, Tashi knew you would love Patrick in every life, too. It didnât matter what order you met them in; you were the catalyst that changed each of their lives.Â
Tashi thought she was the only objective spectator to your relationships with Art and Patrick. She was your best friend at Stanford when you dated Art, and she was practically a stranger now that you were with Patrick. Watching your romantic relationship unfold on TV and in newspapers and magazines was entirely different from having a front-row seat back in college, but Tashi knew you well enough to see how deeply and genuinely you loved Patrick, just as you had loved Art.
âSo you want me to join your team because you couldnât win Y/Nâs number that day?â
Art lifted his head to meet Tashiâs gaze. âNo,â he denied. âI want you to join my team because I want to win.â
Tashi suppressed a grin. She should have known that if it wasnât about you, it was about Patrick. âI think youâd beat him now if you guys played,â she commented, sipping her coffee. âDonât you think?âÂ
It was a challenge that Tashi knew Art would easily see through.Â
Perhaps Art could beat Patrick if their history wasnât complicated by you entering their lives. If the two of them were just best friends trying to make it in the tennis world, Art had the skills, practice, and tenacity to win now. After all, he had dedicated himself to the sport at Stanford and had an excellent team supporting him, while Patrick continued to rely on raw talent. As Art steadily climbed the ranks with every game, Patrick floundered somewhere in the lower 200s.Â
But all of this was negated by one simple fact. Patrick had the one thing that Art truly wanted: you.Â
If Art and Patrick played a match tomorrow, you would be in Patrickâs player box, cheering his name and applauding his wins. Your presence at the matchâand in Patrickâs lifeâwould be more than enough for Art to lose every time he faced his former best friend, just as he lost you. The only thing that could give Art a chance to beat Patrick would be having you on his side.Â
âDonât know,â Art replied cryptically. âWe, uh⊠havenât played professionally, and donât keep in touch.â Tashi laughed, nearly choking on her coffee. âWhat?âÂ
She cleared her throat. âJust⊠She never saw it,â Tashi explained. âThe rivalry between you and Patrick. Ever since that night we first met, she always assumed the two of you were after me.â She shook her head, visibly entertained. âShe used to say that I was the sun and she was the moon. But, God, wasnât she just everything? The moon and the stars and everything in between, that was her.â Tashi and Art shared a soft, sentimental expression. âI never understood why she couldnât see it. Everything was over the moment you and Patrick met her, and I knew none of us would ever be the same.â
A small smile stretched across Artâs lips. âYeahâŠâÂ
Tashi was rightâyou had been everything to him.Â
Art felt it the moment his eyes first met yours, an instant connection that went beyond mere attraction. It was as if something within him recognised you, a deep and undeniable pull that resonated in both his body and heart. It wasnât just about your smile or how you moved; it was how your presence seemed to complete something in him, filling a void he hadnât even known existed.
You became his anchor, the one person who made everything else make sense, and from that moment on, he knew his life would never be the same without you.
âWe joked that we werenât homewreckers the night we met you, butâŠâ Tashi trailed off, sighing as she set her mug on the table and crossed her arms. âI never thought it would come between me and her. I always thought I was a better friend than that. And I hate it, but running into you today is the closest Iâve felt to her in years,â she confessed.
Sitting there opposite your former best friend, Art couldnât help but agree. So many parts of you lived on in Tashi, remnants of your lifelong friendship that had shaped both of you in ways he could now see clearly. The way she tilted her head when deep in thought mirrored your own, a habit youâd both picked up during your countless late-night conversations. That amused, all-knowing expression on Tashiâs face when Art tried to lie to her was uncannily similar to yours.Â
Even her choice of words, the little phrases and inside jokes that only you two shared, brought you vividly to life at that moment, making it feel like a part of you was still there, sitting right across from Art.
âYeah, me too,â Art agreed, trying to keep the sudden gust of sadness out of his tone.Â
To make matters worse, seeing Tashi was the closest Art had felt to you and Patrick in a very long time.Â
It brought back memories of his former best friend, who had once been his world. There was a time when the four of you felt inseparable, and now, sitting there, Art could almost hear the echoes of those days. The way Tashi absentmindedly rubbed her forearm was like Patrick used to, a nervous habit that always surfaced during serious conversations. Tashiâs honest recount of how much she missed you felt like a mirror image of how much Art missed Patrick. Being with Tashi now, it was impossible not to feel the empty space left by the absence of the friendships that had once defined them both.
That night, as Tashi stepped into Artâs hotel room, the invisible string that still bound them both to you seemed to tighten, pulling them a little closer to where you slept just a few floors away.
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âI just got off the phone with Elora,â you declared, stepping into your shared hotel room with Patrick and finding your boyfriend lounging on the bed with the TV on. âIâve been asked to play an exhibition match tomorrow. Just something quick and fun before the first round to boost ticket sales for the qualifiers. A bunch of American players from the tour will be there.â
You dropped onto the bed beside Patrick, kicking off your shoes and curling up in his awaiting arms. The two of you had been travelling together for over a year, sharing rooms while on tour and cohabitating in every aspect of your lives. It was like a reward after enduring a long-distance relationship during your final year at Stanford. Instead of just talking on the phone and occasionally getting surprise visits from Patrick, you went everywhere together and supported each other at every match and tournament you attended.
The two of you had slipped into an easy routine. Having the same profession meant that you were constantly going to the same places, and it made travelling and sightseeing so much more special. After working hard for over two weeks at each tournament, exploring new cities with Patrick was the ideal way to wind down and relax. There was something incredibly special and romantic about doing every day of your life with him.
Your relationship had been grabbing headlines ever since the press caught on to the fact that you were together over a year ago, but the attention ramped up exponentially after you won Wimbledon.
What used to be short articles about an up-and-coming, attractive couple in the tennis world had snowballed into detailed timelines of your dates and public appearances with Patrick. Luckily, the public adored you, and there was very little criticism or negativity surrounding your relationship. Other players on the WTA and ATP tour often teased you about being real celebrities, pointing out how rare it was to win public favour as much as you and Patrick did.
Even though this shift was odd, and you had yet to get used to the constant eyes on you, there were perks to having your picture taken professionally every time you went on a date with your boyfriend. You had framed your favourite newspaper clipping, a beautiful picture of you kissing Patrick after winning Wimbledon, with the heading The Darlings of the Tennis World written above it in a large, bold font.
âGreat,â Patrick drawled, blinking lazily as he wrapped his arms around you. His hands gravitated under your shirt to draw circles on the bare skin of your midriff, immediately sending butterflies to your stomach. âWhich unlucky girlâs getting her ass handed to her while you beat her in straight sets?â he joked, knowing any match you played would end in a crushing defeat for the other player.Â
âActuallyâŠâ you trailed off, sending him your best smile as Patrick drew his head back to meet your gaze.Â
He observed your innocent expression with quizzical, unsure eyes. Even though you were giving him your sweetest look, there was something mischievous about the glint in your eyes. When realisation hit him, Patrick sighed and said, âIâm the unlucky girl, arenât I?â His distraught tone made laughter bubble from your lips.
âSmart and handsome? I really hit the jackpot,â you teased, buttering him up with compliments so that he would agree more readily. âCome on, Pat, itâll be fun!âÂ
âOh yeah, really fun!â Patrick agreed sarcastically, matching your energetic tone. âLike how a lion treats a lamb during slaughter!â
You rolled your eyes, stifling your laughter at your boyfriendâs dramatics. âDonât worry, pretty girl, Iâll go easy on you,â you said, imitating his voice and tone. He had never used those exact words about playing tennis, but Patrickâs tone was always thick with the same arrogant confidence. âThink about it! If you play against me, youâll get to see that winning serve of mine up close and personal.â
âExcuse me, Iâve been on the opposing end of your winning serve plenty of times during practice,â Patrick defended. âI always knew you were better than me, gorgeous, but I donât remember agreeing to public humiliation when we started dating!â
âDrama queen,â you accused. âIt really will be fun! Weâll be micâd up and we can talk and joke the entire time. Itâs the best of three sets and itâll be just like practising together. Come on, what do you say?â At Patrickâs uncertain expression, you sat up in bed and swung a leg over his lap to straddle him. The fire that instantaneously burned in his gaze made you smirk triumphantly. âIâll be really grateful if you do it,â you said suggestively, placing your hands on his chest and grinning. âPretty please?â
âWell, since you said pretty please,â Patrick joked, unable to keep the wide smile off his face when you tilted your head at him. âSure. Whatâs one more event where everyone thinks youâre out of my league?â
Happily, you exclaimed, âThatâs the spirit!âÂ
âWaitââ Patrick frowned when you got up from his lap and began scurrying around the room looking for your phoneâ âI thought you were going to show me how grateful you are?â
You snorted. âNice try. You can have your reward after the exhibition match,â you declared, chuckling quietly.
âYou drive a hard bargain,â Patrick complained.
âDonât act like you donât love the chase,â you retorted, winking as you texted Elora that you and Patrick were happy to participate in the exhibition match.Â
From his place on your shared bed, Patrick rolled onto his stomach and observed you. It was hard to imagine that he had only known you for four years. Your participation in his life felt so insurmountably important that it was like he had known you his entire life. You had seamlessly woven yourself into the fabric of Patrickâs daily existence, shaping his world with a depth and significance that defied the brevity of time.Â
Unlike Tashi and Art, Patrick realised early on that you were someone he should hold on to. His life before you had been filled with disappointment from his family, and Patrick recognised what a rarity you were. Having already lost you before when his relationships with Tashi and Art ended, Patrick knew losing you meant losing something irreplaceable. Your presence filled gaps he hadnât noticed before he met you, making it obvious that you were someone worth cherishing.Â
As you picked up a phone call from your coach, Patrick went on his laptop and checked how much money was in his savings account. He won enough matches to pay for plane tickets, tennis equipment, and other daily necessities, saving an immense amount of money because the fat cheque you got from Nike every month more than covered your shared accommodations. Over the last year, in particular, Patrick had started saving for something very special.Â
An engagement ring.
As much as Patrick wanted you to have the very best, an engagement ring from Harry Winston or Bulgari just wasnât within his budget. He was entitled to a family heirloom ring, but Patrick didnât want to give you something from his family. Any engagement ring he chose had to represent you and your relationship with him, rather than the generations of unhappy, reluctant marriages his family seemed destined to repeat.
After carefully perusing different stores and comparing the cost and quality of various rings, Patrick found the perfect one at Cartier. It was simple and classic, exactly the style you had mentioned you preferred offhandedly on several occasions. To his surprise, it didnât cost an arm and a leg, and he had almost saved enough to get you the exact ring he wanted you to have.
After Wimbledon, you noticed and commented on the fact that Patrick was training harder than ever. To you, it seemed like he was finally starting to take himself more seriously. Instead of coasting on his natural talent, Patrick began seeing your physical trainer with you and even quit smoking to improve his stamina. What you didnât know was that he was doing all of this to increase his chances of winning more matches at the US Open, where a significant amount of prize money was on the line.
In Patrickâs mind, the more matches he won, the more money he could take home, and the nicer your engagement ring could be.Â
âHey, do you know what ring size you are?â Patrick asked as casually as he could when your phone call was over. âJess got a bunch of rings that donât fit her and she was wondering if you want them instead?â
âThatâs so sweet, I canât believe she thought of me,â you acknowledged, grinning. Ever since you met Patrick and his extended family last year, you were constantly invited to spend time with his cousins Jess and Alex. While Patrick wasnât best friends with them, they were the closest family he had, so you had accepted several invitations over the past year. âI would love that, Jess has amazing taste in jewellery! Tell her Iâm an eight in ring size, but Iâll squeeze into anything she wants to give me,â you joked, not thinking much of Patrickâs question.Â
With shaking hands, Patrick sent a text with your ring size to the sales associate at the Cartier store in New York, who had been keeping him updated on when the exact ring he wanted was available. Once the US Open was over, all Patrick had to do was head to Manhattan and pick up the ring. It had taken him almost four months to find the perfect one for you, and then it was just a matter of winning enough prize money to afford it. As long as Patrick won two rounds at the US Open next week, heâd have enough to buy your engagement ring.
Then he would have to decide how and when to propose to you.
#challengers x reader#challengers fanfic#art donaldson x reader#patrick zweig x reader#art donaldson#patrick zweig#art donaldson imagine#patrick zweig imagine#patrick zweig x you#art donaldson x you#challengers fanfiction#mike faist x reader#josh o connor x reader#tashi duncan#fic: guilty as sin?
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James Potter x slytherin!fem!reader
Summary: Playing Quidditch against your secret boyfriend is usually funâŠ
Genre: Fluff/hurt and comfort <3
Warnings: rivalry, chaser!captain!james, chaser!captain!reader, secret relationship (previous enemies to lovers), injuries, swearing, protective!james (my baby), short-ish
JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST
It had begun innocently.
You and James had promised not to tell anyone about your relationship for one week. Only that week turned into another, which eventually turned into four, and now it's much too awkward announcing to the entire school that you've been dating James Potterâthe same boy you have publicly spent years saying you couldn't standâfor almost six months.
So, you never did, and neither did he.
However, the upside of your little arrangement was that now Quidditch is endlessly more entertaining.
"You ready, Cap?" Anne, your seeker, asks as you secure your gloves around your wrists. You nod and pull on the straps tightly. This is possibly the most important game of the season and you're determined to win.
You drown out the crowd's cheers when you mount your broom, adjust your hair, and fly up to where your lovely boyfriend is waiting for you to shake his hand.
James looks handsome, with his messy curls messier from the wind, and your heart flutters unintentionally. "Y/l/n," he says and balances on his broom as he grins.
"Potter."
He holds out his arm and looks around at his team and then at yours. "Good luck," James says and you know him well enough to hear his sincerity.
You take his hand, your breath hitching when his thumb caresses across your knuckles. It's such a quick brush you almost think you'd imagined it, but then James sends you a smileâthat smileâand you know you hadn't imagined anything.
You drop his hand but return his smile. "May the best team win," your voice is smooth and you hear James chuckle as you fly away from him. You don't dare look back as you hide your smile and nod to your teammates.
The game starts normally, but as time progresses it becomes obvious this particular match is more competitive than usual. James's players become more flustered as the game continues, but you don't concern yourself with them as Slytherin is in the lead. Which, to your dismay, is more uncommon than you would like considering James's team is talented.
Annoyingly talented.
However, you should have been concerned considering when Danny Shepard hits the bludger directly at you out of pure anger, you're unprepared.
The front of your broom shatters from the force and you let out a loud scream when you jerk to the side, your broom malfunctioning as you plummet to the ground.
You can hear some of your teammates call out your name in worry but when you fall onto the grass and roll into the sidelines of a muddy ditch. Your eyes water as a piercing pain makes your head pound.
"Y/n!" James's calls and when you sit up, you see him land on the ground. He lets his broom fall without a care and sprints over to you. He kneels next to you and gently holds your head up, "Shit, shit, shit, shit," James sounds terrified. You blink. The world around him is spinning and his features are blurry.
"Help!" James screams and your heart leaps. What the hell is he doing? Everyone will know. You try to shake your head to tell him to shut up but you just wince in pain. James loops his arm around your back and concern etches his face when you cry out in pain from his movement.
You don't remember much after that. Just that some teachers and your teammates had rushed to your side to make sure you were okay. You weren't. You remember some of James's friends had to hold him back when the teachers hurried you to the Hospital Wing.
However, you wake up to him next to you. James is still in his Quidditch uniform, his head in his arms, his arm crossed beside your hips, as his chest lifts and falls lightly.
You blink, adjusting to the dim light from the lamp, and your shifting must wake James up because he looks up. Sheet lines are drawn on his cheeks and his voice is hoarse when he mutters, "Baby?"
"Hi," you whisper, forcing a small smile.
It's as if his entire face brightens and in his excitement James jumps up and wraps his arms around your shoulders. "Merlin, you're really okay! I was so worried," his voice sounds tense and when you wince a little, he moves back like he'd burned you. "Sorry, sorry," he blushes pink and slumps down onto the chair again.
"It's okay, Jamie," you smile at him and then ask, "What happened?" You look around you. It's dark outside. You must have been passed out for a few hours, at the very least.
"Shepard aimed his bludger at you out of anger," James hurries to explain, "He's off the team. Definitively. No arguments."
You smile at him a little but ask the important question, "You continued the game, did you?"
James nods solemnly, "Yeah, we did," he pauses as if debating something, "Gryffindor won," he says after a moment. Your eyebrows scrunch hearing him and you groan, cursing. James is quick to hold your hand. "But you'll beat us next time, lovie. It was such a close game."
You roll your eyes at him, turning your head to bury your face into your pillow. "You're such a twat," you whine and then look up at him through your hair, "this is why I disliked you."
James's smile falters, seemingly a little hurt. "I'm being serious! You played well. Your entire team did," he whispers, stroking his thumb over your hand.
You snort, "Oh, I know you're being serious, James. You're too kind. It's infuriating."
"Would you rather I rub my win in your face?" James asks with a raise of his brow. You sit up and glare at him. Admittedly, James has never been humble about his team winning a game but this was different.
You're his girlfriend now. His injured, and incredibly competitive, girlfriend.
"Well, nothing would have stopped you before," you say and James rolls his eyes. He leans in closer.
"Well, back then, I wouldn't have cared that one of my players hit you like that."
You send him a suspicious look.
"Okay, I would have cared, but not this much."
You smile. As much as you hate James for his undeniable chivalry and how annoyingly kind-hearted he is, if he wasn't then he wouldn't be the person you loved. And oh boy, do you love him.
"I want everyone to know about us," you say suddenly. James's eyes round like saucers. His hand finds yours and he tilts his head like a puppy, an endearing confusion gracing his features. He squeezes your hand in his.
"You must have really hit your head hard babyâ"
"No," you interrupt him, your voice coming out stern, "I'm ready. I'm not ashamed. I've never been ashamed. I just didn't want anyone to know because if they did then they'd meddle, and if didn't know then you were mine. Only mine."
A smile curls James's lips. "What's changed?"
You look into his eyes. "Well, now I want everyone to know you are mine."
James raises and eyebrow and he chuckles. "So basically, you're claiming me?"
"Yeah, I guess I am."
With a smile, James nuzzles into you and then kisses your cheek, right under one of your bruises. "Good, because everyone already knows about us. When you passed out, I made too much of a scene and the game was up," he says sheepishly, "It's all anyone is talking about apparently."
You giggle as his breath tickles your skin and you hold his nape. "Fucking let them, I don't care. All that matters is that you're mine."
"I am yours," James confirms into your ear, "Wholeheartedly yours, Y/n."
#james potter#james potter x reader#marauders#james potter fluff#james potter smut#marauders fic#james potter fanfic#james potter fanfiction#james potter x you#marauders imagine#james potter blurb#james potter imagines#james potter imagine#james potter drabble#james potter fic#james potter x fem!reader#james potter x y/n#marauder james potter#marauders imagines#hp marauders#mauraders#marauders fanfiction#marauders era#marauders harry potter#hp#harry potter fanfiction
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A Hole in the Heart
Between this and the drunken confession from Leona fic đ I must be in my Savanaclaw era⊠Maybe Iâll write a food-related Jack fic too, who knows www
Imagine this...
Thereâs a cute guy working behind the counter.
You can only afford to dawdle for so long. Your eyes are supposed to be focused on reading the menu mounted overhead or browsing the glossy breads and cakes on offer. Instead, your gaze drifts up to the employeeâa hyena beastmanâsheepishly awaiting your order.
He leans on the glass display case, face nestled in his arms, cheek to forearm. His dirty blonde hair sticks up like someone has aggressively ruffled his head. The boy blinks at you with big, blue-grey eyes, mouth permanently etched into a sloped smile that suggests he is capable of stirring up trouble off his shift.
An apron hangs loosely from his lanky frame, and a cap is clamped down between two large, twitching ears. His tail, short and stout, wags like a metronome, in time with the rhythm he taps out with a finger.
Yeah, heâs definitely super cute, you conclude.
â⊠Hey.â
You jolt at the hand passion waving in front of your face, at his voice. Itâs casual and warm, like the sound of an old friendâs greeting after a long day.
The bakery employee lifts his head and quirks a brow. âYou decided what you want yet? Youâve been starinâ for a while now.â
W-Was I really staring?!
A hand flies to your face, testing it for signs of self-consciousness. Your skin is flushed and tingles, like flames have been lit under it.
âS-Sorry, I mustâve dozed off,â you mumble, burrowing into your collar and praying that he doesnât notice. Focus here, you remind yourself. âYou have so many options, Iâm having a hard time deciding. What do you recommend?â
âMe?â He fully draws himself up, trading his smile for a smirk. âI know just the thing. Hang on a sec!â
The employee peels away and snags a donut from the display case, wrapping it in a checkered napkin. The pastry is plump and full, fried to a golden perfection and covered in a shiny sugar glaze.Â
âOh⊠It doesnât have a hole in the center,â you realize.
âThe holes are usually there to help the dough cook evenly. We repurpose whatâs punched out as donut holes,â he says, eyes glittering with gluttony, âbut nothing beats having the whole thing, hole and all.â
âPfft. When you put it like that, it feels sort of sad.â
âHow do you figure?â
âA donut with a hole sounds like a person thatâs missing their heart. Some important part of themselves just⊠poof. Gone.â
âA person missing their heart, huh? You got an imagination on ya.â
D-Did he just compliment me?
Your heart leaps up and lodges in your throat. Itâs suddenly difficult to usher your words out.
He shakes his head and turns away, setting to his work. The boy becomes but a blur of activity, and you watch him, mesmerized.
He generously ladles chocolate sauce onto the donut, garnished by a handful of sliced nuts. Then he glops on a healthy helping of custard cream, a spritz of whipped cream, and a big spoonful of berry jam. The result is one decadently sticky pile of sugar with everything under the kitchen sink thrown onto it.
He presents the towering donut to you with a flourish. âTa-dah! I give you⊠the Ruggie Special!âÂ
You gape at it, unsure of what to do or say. Thereâs no way I can finish this before class starts, you fretâbut you accept the donut in a daze, not wanting to reject all his efforts. Your fingers and his graze, sparking a thrill within you.
âWhatâs âRuggieâ?â you ask shyly.
âThatâs me.â He winks and points to himself. No, to the name tag pinned to his chest. âRuggie. Ruggie Bucchi.â
H-He told me his name. You clutch your hands together in an attempt to calm them. Is he flirting with me?
âW-Wow, you have a menu item named after you? Thatâs cool,â you babble. Oh noâyouâre so horrid at small talk, you scold yourself.
âUnofficially, yeah. The boss doesnât mind if I use the extra ingredients lying around to experiment. Oh, speaking ofââ He holds out a hand. âAll that extra stuffâs gonna cost ya. Thatâll be 700 madol, if you please!â
â700âŠ?!â You startle, as if waking from a dream. The donutâs mountain of topples wobble, threatening to tumble. âThatâs over 5 times the cost of a single plain donut!â
âWell, this is a single plain donut with all the fixings,â he corrects you with a snicker. Ruggie points to your Special. The chocolate sauce is rapidly dribbling down, cream leaking into the napkin. âLook, itâs already getting all over you. Better cough up the cash and get to eating it real quick~âÂ
âNrghâŠâ You reluctantly fish out 700 madol and slap the bills onto the counter. âHere. Just take it already.â
âNishishishi, thank you for your patronage!â Ruggie happily scoops up the money and deposits it into the register. The bills are swallowed up by the metal contraption, as if it is feasting on your misfortune.
Why do I feel like I just got duped by a pretty face?
Your stomach lurches, disappointed with yourself. Friends and classmates always teased you for this. Head in the clouds, too sentimental, unlucky with guys, so quick to fall in love and even quicker to have your heart brokenâall phrases they used to describe you.
Someone absolutely hopeless in their flights of fancy. A donut wandering around with a hole where their heart should be, seeking what they lack.
You flush deeper. Maybe Iâm proving them right. Iâm seeing things that arenât there.
âW-Well, thank you for your recommendation,â you say hurriedly.
âNo prob,â he replies with the tip of his hat. âAll in a dayâs work.â
A dayâs work, duh. Stupid, stupid. He was only buttering you up to swindle you into a sale.
The donut is oozing into your palm now. You frown and attempt to mop what is spilling with your tongue. Ruggie laughs a littleâand youâre not sure if heâs laughing with you or laughing at you. Truthfully, you donât know which youâd prefer.
âNeed more napkins?â he offers, a wad of them at the ready. âTheseâre free.â
âTh-Thank you,â you mutter, grabbing them with your free (clean) hand. âI have to get going, or Iâll be late.â
âUh-huh. Donât they all?â
You gather yourself, hurrying to the door and flinging yourself through. It swings as you exit, the bell above jingling and ringing out your departure. The warm, comforting smell of sugar dissipates into the outdoor air.
âSee ya around,â he calls after you, a teasing lilt in his voice. You donât see what kind of an expression heâs making, but you donât dare allow yourself to look back and find out.
You try to busy yourself with scrubbing clean. A bathroomâyou should have stopped by the bakeryâs bathroom to wet the napkins, to wash your hands with soap. But you have your pride, and you refuse to march back in, to have him mocking you a second time.
You wipe at your thumb, but the napkin catches and sticks at the corner. Thereâs a blot there, dark-colored and bleeding.
⊠Huh? Whatâs that?
You lift the napkin and squint at the smudged shapes scrawled onto it. Letters and numbers come into view.
Ruggie Bucchi, followed by a series of numbers strung together. A phone number.
Everything in you stills.
When did he�
You rifle through the rest of your napkins, looking for other hidden messages. Nothing else, just the one.Â
But if he passed me his phone number, that means⊠Heâs interested in me too?!
Excitement kicks up in you again. Hope, dancing a little jig.
You melt, pressing the napkin to yourself. Your heart practically beats right out of your chest, as if it wants to see the proof with its own eyes.
Ruggie. Ruggie Bucchi⊠The quick-witted guy in the donut shop, the boy with an impish grin and fast fingers.
The hole in your chest fills, having found its missing part. Whole at last, tasting sweeter than any confection.
Youâll have to text him first chance you get.
#twst#twisted wonderland#disney twisted wonderland#disney twst#Ruggie Bucchi#twst x reader#twisted wonderland x reader#Ruggie Bucchi x Reader#Reader#self insert#something no one asked for#twst imagines#twisted wonderland imagines#twst scenarios#twisted wonderland scenarios#imagine this
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