#MORAL: DO NOT OVER COMPLICATE ANYTHING

[i-c-u-p]

"it's like playing 4d chess" not to me. To me, it's like playing ball. Catch, if you will..

[agalychnisspranneusroseus]

Imagine you're Mr. Wu and your weird gay daughter runs away in tears after destroying some unespecified object while yelling about you ruining her life. Because you told her you'd be moving to another state. This is the last time you see your daughter in half a year, and when she comes back, she comes back... wrong. She's wearing a light leather armor, a fur-lined cape, and a green flower crown. She has two long scars, one alongside her spine and the other along her chest, the tissue around them covered in burn scars. Doctors say she shouldn't have survived. Doctors say she didn't. Yet she's right here, in front of you, hospital gown clinging to her small, fragile, trembling frame. She fidgets with her hands. Getting her to stay still has always been difficult, but now it seems impossible. She won't let go of her phone. She's always texting her two friends. When you take it away, she gets anxious. You always knew those damn phones cause kids to act weird, but your kid having a panic attack seems too extreme, even for her. Then again, she's always been odd. Nowadays, she wakes up crying and screaming almost every night, and you realize she's been stealing her phone from your bedside drawer every night to text her friends, returning it before you wake up. You catch her once and decide to give her that damn phone back. It's the only thing that calms her down, as if she were a baby with a pacifier. She spends her last weeks in LA clinging to her friends, having sleepovers and playing her weird board games with them. Everytime they drop her back at her house, there's an excessive amount of hugs and tears. But the moments when they call her, or when she leaves to meet with them, or when they show up at their door to pick her up... those are the only moments in which you see her happy. One of her friends, the rude and disobedient one, came back with a big scar on her face. She's been acting a lot nicer, though. The other one too. She acts a great deal more adult now. You doesn't know what happened or where your daughter went. She won't tell you. But you can tell this friendship is the only thing keeping her afloat right now. Maybe you know, deep down, that no one else would understand.

And then you decide to move anyway because fuck her amirite

[alwynjoes]

I mean, yeah she has a plane but it's trackable, so we know she hasn't been near him since tour started. We also know she was still with Joe at the end of February.

So this raises the interesting possibility that the whole thing has been going on longer than that and that the "no crossover!" source is protesting too much...😂

yeah... like literally no one was going to seriously consider cheating just because they're hooking up, rebounds are very common, but they were so adamant about the breakup being in february and there being no crossover that i'm hoping it's not true just because i don't like the implications otherwise lmao

[ohnoitstbskyen]

Ok so I’ve had this question for a while and I feel like you’ll be able to give me a good answer. I understand that we’re absolutely not supposed to support anything JKR does monetarily and I never intend to do so. However is engaging with Harry Potter media *at all* also something I should not do or is it only things that give her money?

Like, would there be anything wrong with me playing Hogwarts Legacy if I pirated it? Is fanfiction and fan art ok to consume? Or is engaging with the IP at all going to be harmful in a way that I don’t see atm?

Thank you for your time!

I don't really think a cis person is the right person to ask about this, but I also know that trans people are sick to death of having to field these questions so I'll do my best to answer this, if everyone who reads my answer will promise me that you will NOT use anything I say in this post as an annoying argument against a trans person who has a different opinion on the matter. Remember whose opinions are actually important here.

And look, number one, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Nobody can stop you. If you, in yourself, in your soul, feel morally comfortable consuming Harry Potter by some convoluted method of Ethical Consumption™, then go and do that, and own it, and have the strength to be judged for your decisions.

Trans people might not trust you - hell, I'll probably not trust you either. They might get angry at you, and criticize you, or roll their eyes and call you a fucking loser. If you have the moral conviction that what you are doing is right, and that you are acting in accordance with your beliefs and you are not doing harm, then stand by that conviction and face the consequences. Have that strength of character.

But if you feel the need to go around posting and arguing that it's unfair, that you shouldn't be judged, that you should get to be a special exception and people are unreasonable when they get mad at you... then that is evidence, proof positive, that you are a fucking loser. That you are cowardly, and you don't actually believe that what you are doing is right, you just want the world to affirm your fragile ego while you enjoy your little treats.

To be clear, I am not accusing you of doing this (you seem to just earnestly be asking for guidance), but there's a hell of a lot of people who do do this, and you don't want to be one of them.

So that's number one. Do whatever the fuck you want, and face the consequences with a spine.

Number two is... just fucking drop it. That is my earnest advice to you. Just fucking drop Harry Potter. They are children's books from the early 2000s, they just are not that fucking good or important. The Hogwarts Legacy game is live service slop; the movies are passable at best and their quality comes from the actors being better than the source material. Just drop it. Harry Potter has nothing to offer that you can't get elsewhere from better media with better authors, or problematic authors who have good grace to at least be dead.

Don't waste your life thinking about complicated ways to circumvent the moral problem of JK Rowling's rancid transphobic hate-aura at the center of the franchise, don't waste your finite time on Earth trying to thread that stupid needle. Harry Potter isn't worth this. Rowling is old, and shriveling from hate and mold fumes, at the very least just wait for her to fucking die, and for her political project to fail, before you pick that world back up again.

I speak as someone who read the first book at age 11, hyperfixated on relating to Harry, and whose entire cultural life was consumed by the franchise for over a decade. It is not worth it. You don't need it, you don't need the stress of trying to navigate how or whether to engage with it ethically. You almost certainly have an enormous backlog of other books, games, movies and TV shows you've been meaning to get around to, so just go do that instead. I promise you it will be infinitely more rewarding, and infinitely less compromised by stress and guilt and cognitive dissonance.

And while you're at it, send some money to a trans charity and go scream invectives at a transphobic politician some time.

[i-like-loserz]

bunny love

synopsis: hongjoong comes back to find you fast asleep

pairing: dom!hongjoong x reader

warnings: SMUT (18+), idol au, somnophilia (dub-con), tit play, cockwarming, sleepy time, daddy kink, emotionally unavailable!hongjoong, owner! hongjoong, pet!reader, bunny hybrid!reader, rough-handling, ooc hongjoong! :3

word count: 2k

note: happy new years! i find this guy really cute but also i want him to lose it and pin me down -- that's all ૮ . . ྀིა⁩

masterlist

Your face is exhaustedly smashed into the pillow, the plushness of your cheek squishing against your eye. Hongjoong watches as your back rises with soft breaths, your body completely surrendering to a deep sleep. 

Your tiny frilly sleep shorts stick to your body like second skin, stretching nicely over your ass as your right leg is hooked over another pillow.

Your cute little cottontail is pushed through a small hole in the fabric, fluffy as can be, begging for him to tug on it until you're whining out for him.

Lower, he can see the shape of your soft cunt under the pink shorts, clinging to every dip and mound, for his eyes only. 

Hongjoong decided at the last minute to fly you overseas, sparing no expense, merely because he missed you. He wanted to come home to his sweet bunny instead of his temporary call girls, craving the one thing that only you can give him.

Unconditional love.

A man like him shouldn’t be so easily swayed by his emotions, much less the most trivial of them all: Love. He never had time for them anyway, and even if he did it made things far too complicated for everyone involved.

But after another successful comeback working tirelessly as a the group's leader, you were plopped into his lap as a kind of “therapy pet” by a notoriously morally-dubious investor. Within a couple of weeks, he started to see the appeal of such emotions.

Or at least, the appeal of receiving them. 

At first, he resisted your affections, only asking for you when he wanted a warm cunt to bury himself in. Otherwise, you’d sit in your tiny room, doing pretty much anything to pass the time as he actively ignores your existence in the mansion. 

He assumed you’d be a temporary doll for him to play with before you’d attempt to escape, something to chase during his limited off-time, but he never anticipated just how easily you'd fall for him.

It annoyed him how pleasant you were, never complaining or whining, always staying out of sight until you were needed. It was like you were made for him.

No matter how much he’d taunt, tease, and ignore you, you’d only respond to him with unwavering devotion, seemingly unaffected as your eyes continued to regard him with pure adoration whenever he was near. 

Of course, at the end of the day, his ego didn’t mind the constant attention, so he decided to keep you around–at least, for a little bit– if only for the sake of sating his loneliness (though he'd never admit that). Hongjoong’s arm's length attitude started strong, but he was quickly humbled once he made the mistake of letting you in.

He refuses to admit it, but he has formed an attachment to you. He doesn’t understand why he’d want anyone around, much less a needy pet, but he finds himself craving your presence throughout the day, thinking of you as he works in the studio or is on stage in front of thousands of adoring fans.

After a few months, it was quickly decided that you go wherever he goes, serving as his little therapy bunny, ready to be everything he needs. All your energy was drained from the twelve-hour flight he had you on, only managing to get an hour of sleep the whole trip.

A breathy whine pushes through your throat as you shift on the bed, blinding grabbing at the blanket to pull it over your body. Hongjoong watches with an amused smile, having dragged it off of you just a few minutes early to get an eyeful of your body. He gently pushes you to lay on your back before pulling the duvet down once more.

He bites his lip when he sees how your nipples instantly start to pebble through your cropped shirt as his cool hands glide against your exposed stomach, absorbing your natural heat.

Your droopy bunny ears twitch in excitement from the bare stimulation of his touch, but you remain asleep. Your body is always so responsive for him, even when your mind is unconscious. 

Your tiny hands wrap over his wrist, instinctively pulling him closer as you’re slowly nudged awake. He ignores your grabby hands, brushing them off easily as he lifts your shirt, exposing your bare tits to the cool room. Your body arches ever so subtly at the feeling, an eager action that isn’t lost on Hongjoong.

He drifts the pads of his fingers up your skin, trailing goosebumps as he ascends, eyes focused on your perky mounds. He watches you let out a soft whimper as he circles a bud, unconsciously lifting into his touch as pleasure tingles up your spine.

He goes further, flicking and pinching at your sensitive nipples, drinking in every involuntary gasp and groan you let out. One particularly harsh pinch causes you to flinch and open your sleepy eyes.

Hongjoong watches you blink slowly, eyes bleary as they try to focus on what’s in front of them.

“Hm?” You hum drowsily, voice raspy from sleep. 

He splays his palm over your chest, softly squeezing you in his hand as he greets you.

“Hi, bunny. Miss me?” 

“Daddy…” 

He coos, eyes boring into yours as his hand absentmindedly gropes at your other tit. “That’s right princess. You have a good flight?”

“Mhm.”  You nod adorably slow, chest heaving with excited breaths.

His movements start to slow, his hand now petting short comforting strokes against your skin. His tongue swipes over his bottom lip as he takes in the dreamy look in your eyes, still fogged over from your nap.

His actions stop altogether as he considers your reclined form under him.

“You sleepy, baby?”

You shake your head adamantly, pushing yourself up to show your attentiveness. Your eyes suddenly brighten with energy. 

“N-no. I’m up.”

Your avid actions are met with a warm chuckle and a hand that shoves at your chest to push you back against the mattress.

“Relax bunny, we don’t gotta do anything tonight. I just finished a round of interviews with the boys and you had a long flight.”

A small disappointed pout pulls at your lips as you grip a pillow on your lap. Hongjoong raises an eyebrow, not one to accept bratty behavior, no matter how soft he’s become for you.

“Hey, none of that. Scoot over, honey, let me in.” 

You barely push yourself to the center of the bed, preferring to be right against his body when you sleep. 

You patiently lay on your side as you watch Hongjoong undress, pulling off a ridiculously expensive silk shirt before throwing it carelessly to the ground, happy to be out of the fancy fabric after a long day of charming interviewers. 

You squeeze your thighs together as you drink in his exposed torso: perfectly smooth and defined. You remember the nights you would trace each freckle, touch featherlight so as to not wake him up.

The shirt is followed by his dark slacks and shoes, joining the discarded fabric in a pile for someone else to clean up tomorrow.  

He pushes the ungodly amount of pillows you were sleeping with on the floor before slipping in, shivering as his body acclimates to the residual heat you left on his side. He shifts around the bed before propping himself onto his right side, facing his body toward yours. 

“Turn around.” Hongjoong calmly murmurs regarding your closeness, eyes half-lidded either from exhaustion or desire. You flip over obediently, staring at the gray wall in anticipation as you wait for his next instruction.  

He doesn’t speak as reaches over you, letting out a relaxed sigh as he wraps his arms around your waist. As Hongjoong pulls you closer to nestle his hips against yours, you can feel the warmth of his hard cock insistently push against your ass through your shorts. You let out a soft moean, arching your back to press yourself more firmly against him. 

His face rests above your shoulder as he holds you, lips brushing gently at the edge of your fluffy ear. 

“Daddy just wants a hug, sweetheart. You think you could give me one?” You melt as he addresses you with a soft voice. You wrap your arms over his, giving him an affectionate squeeze. 

“Of course-” Your sentence stutters to a stop as he suddenly starts to tug at your shorts, fingers hooking at the waistband before pulling them down your thighs.

You try to turn toward him, confused by his sudden actions, but his hold keeps you still and defenseless against his hands.

“Wait, wh-”

He promptly muffles your confusion with a hand over your lips as he pushes at the fabric until it’s around your knees, effectively binding your legs together. His hand drops from your face as he reaches down to pull himself out of his boxers, already hard and throbbing for your cunt.

“Dadd-”

“Just a little taste, bunny.”

He rubs the tip of his cock through your sopping folds, effectively coating himself in your slick as lewd sounds hungrily escape between your bodies.

You feel him experimentally push the head in before backing out, teasing your hungry cunt as you try to suck him back in.

“Mm, look at this greedy pussy, all wet, just begging for my cock.” 

“Please, daddy, I can take it!”

He pushes in slowly, softly shushing your whimpers as you struggle to stretch around him, your legs still forcefully bound together, making you tighter than ever. 

“F-fuck.”

He lets out a groan as he bottoms out, forehead pushing against your shoulder as he struggles to hold his hips back from fucking into you.

Just a taste, he reminded himself. He can go a night without a fucking you into the mattress. 

Your body feels restless as his cock deliciously throbs inside you, prodding right against your cervix. You’re ravenous for his usual mouthwatering thrusts, anticipating a hard fuck that’ll put you to your sleep. But it never comes.

You let out a pathetic whine when he continues to remain completely still behind you, refusing to rut into you like he usually does. You try to squirm against his arms in an attempt to fuck yourself on his cock, hips wiggling in pure desperation for any type of relief.

A short drag of his cock inside your cunt causes you to squeeze around him, instant shivers running up your spine. Before you can get too far, Hongjoong tightens his hold on your body, tsking lowly as you try to resist him.

“I already told you, bunny, we aren’t doing anything tonight.” He positions his body so he can effectively mold himself along your back. “You’re just gonna keep me warm tonight, okay?”

You secretly wear a pout as you solemnly nod, unhappily listening as his breaths begin to calm down and steady behind you.

A handful of minutes go by and he falls asleep, unbothered by your frustrated form as he relaxes against you, contently stuffed in your warmth.

Unfortunately, his calm silence doesn’t help you one bit. You’re so frustrated that you can probably cum from simply clenching around him. 

Your sensitive clit pulses as you lean back into his touch still worked up from the tit massage he gave you earlier.

Couldn’t he have gotten you off before sleeping? 

You hold a breath as you experimentally tighten around him, waiting for a scolding voice or movement to stop you, but nothing happens.

You close your eyes as you clench again, finally relaxed enough to take in how full you feel. Your cunt flutters in excitement as you mold around his thickness, each squeeze pushing you toward the edge. 

Unbeknownst to you, Hongjoong feels everything. He has to hold back a groan as wakes up to you pulsing around him, slick smearing over his lower stomach. 

You gasp as he suddenly thrusts harshly against your cervix, still thinking he was asleep behind you.  

His fingers painfully dig into your skin as he growls, “Stop fucking around.” He holds himself deep inside of you, ignoring your whimpers at the pressure. “Go to sleep, or I’m leaving.” You give up, eyes wet from losing your orgasm.

You squeeze your eyes shut to force yourself to sleep, desperately trying to block out the sensation of being filled. 

[tim-drake-scholar]

I think Bruce Wayne is a loving parent, but not a good one. He is a psychologically tormented person who never got over his trauma or developed any healthy coping mechanisms but he just keeps ending up with them and doesn’t really know what to do with the kids except what has always ‘worked for him’?

Like Dick’s parents die right in front of him and Bruce is just “hey kid, my parents died in front of me too. And you know what helped me? Punching bad guys.”

And Jason? He finds this kid stealing his tires and he’s not afraid of Batman. He doesn’t seem afraid of anything. He’s got a big heart and cares a lot about people, but no one cares about him. But he’s got a strong sense of justice So Bruce looks at the kid and goes, “hey kid, you seem lost. You know what helps me when I’m feeling lost? Punching bad guys.”

With tim it’s a little more complicated. Bc this kid showed up at his front door and put him in a corner (tim saved him) and Bruce went, “hey kid, you seem pretty good at this. I do encourage you to find a different extracurricular activity… but yes, you can punch bad guys with me.”

And with Damian it’s even more complicated but in simplest terms Bruce and Dick look at Damian and go, “hey kid, you seem like you have some issues and a weird moral compass. Do you know what makes me feel better? Punching bad guys.”

Like shit bruce I’m no expert but maybe some talk therapy or grief counselling might help. you cant just "punch bad guys to cope with your feelings" your way out of this one

[eelhound]

"The idea of reforming Omelas is a pleasant idea, to be sure, but it is one that Le Guin herself specifically tells us is not an option. No reform of Omelas is possible — at least, not without destroying Omelas itself:

If the child were brought up into the sunlight out of that vile place, if it were cleaned and fed and comforted, that would be a good thing, indeed; but if it were done, in that day and hour all the prosperity and beauty and delight of Omelas would wither and be destroyed. Those are the terms.

'Those are the terms', indeed. Le Guin’s original story is careful to cast the underlying evil of Omelas as un-addressable — not, as some have suggested, to 'cheat' or create a false dilemma, but as an intentionally insurmountable challenge to the reader. The premise of Omelas feels unfair because it is meant to be unfair. Instead of racing to find a clever solution ('Free the child! Replace it with a robot! Have everyone suffer a little bit instead of one person all at once!'), the reader is forced to consider how they might cope with moral injustice that is so foundational to their very way of life that it cannot be undone. Confronted with the choice to give up your entire way of life or allow someone else to suffer, what do you do? Do you stay and enjoy the fruits of their pain? Or do you reject this devil’s compromise at your own expense, even knowing that it may not even help? And through implication, we are then forced to consider whether we are — at this very moment! — already in exactly this situation. At what cost does our happiness come? And, even more significantly, at whose expense? And what, in fact, can be done? Can anything?

This is the essential and agonizing question that Le Guin poses, and we avoid it at our peril. It’s easy, but thoroughly besides the point, to say — as the narrator of 'The Ones Who Don’t Walk Away' does — that you would simply keep the nice things about Omelas, and work to address the bad. You might as well say that you would solve the trolley problem by putting rockets on the trolley and having it jump over the people tied to the tracks. Le Guin’s challenge is one that can only be resolved by introspection, because the challenge is one levied against the discomforting awareness of our own complicity; to 'reject the premise' is to reject this (all too real) discomfort in favor of empty wish fulfillment. A happy fairytale about the nobility of our imagined efforts against a hypothetical evil profits no one but ourselves (and I would argue that in the long run it robs us as well).

But in addition to being morally evasive, treating Omelas as a puzzle to be solved (or as a piece of straightforward didactic moralism) also flattens the depth of the original story. We are not really meant to understand Le Guin’s 'walking away' as a literal abandonment of a problem, nor as a self-satisfied 'Sounds bad, but I’m outta here', the way Vivier’s response piece or others of its ilk do; rather, it is framed as a rejection of complacency. This is why those who leave are shown not as triumphant heroes, but as harried and desperate fools; hopeless, troubled souls setting forth on a journey that may well be doomed from the start — because isn’t that the fate of most people who set out to fight the injustices they see, and that they cannot help but see once they have been made aware of it? The story is a metaphor, not a math problem, and 'walking away' might just as easily encompass any form of sincere and fully committed struggle against injustice: a lonely, often thankless journey, yet one which is no less essential for its difficulty."

- Kurt Schiller, from "Omelas, Je T'aime." Blood Knife, 8 July 2022.

[abbotjack]

(18+ only) nsfw alphabet– frank langdon .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

a/n : this is for the langdon girlies

word count : 4163

content/warning : infidelity, explicit sexual content, rough sex, unsafe sex (implied), emotional repression, guilt, morally gray dynamics, aftercare, masturbation, possessive language, complex power imbalance, emotionally charged relationship, references to marriage and children.

♡ A = Aftercare Frank Langdon doesn’t do tender aftercare—at least not in the traditional, soft-limbed, cuddling sense. He’s not the type to pull you into his chest and whisper sweet nothings while brushing the hair from your face. He gets too in his head for that. Too aware of where he is, what he's done, and who he has to go home to.

Instead, his version of aftercare is practical and oddly precise. He’ll sit up slowly, still flushed and half-wrecked, and quietly reach for your water bottle, or grab a towel from the nearby chair. He doesn’t say much—just steadies himself with a palm on your thigh, as if silently checking that you’re okay. If you’re still catching your breath, he’ll stay. Not touch, not fidget—just stay. He lingers in the way someone does when they’re afraid that walking away will make the whole thing disappear.

“I didn’t… hurt you?” he asks once, voice gravelled and rough.

You shake your head.

He nods, looks at your body like it deserves more than he gave. Then, quietly, he says, “Good,” but he doesn’t sound convinced.

♡ B = Body Part Frank has never thought of his body as something to admire. It’s a tool, a vehicle, something that gets him through 12-hour shifts, sometimes 24 if the ER’s understaffed. But if you ask what part he’s proud of—not what he thinks you like, but what he secretly holds onto? It’s his neck.

Not in a showy, flex-in-the-mirror kind of way. Just… his neck. Thick and solid, always a little flushed when he’s aroused, corded with tension like he’s constantly swallowing down what he really wants to say. It's the place you kiss when you want to get to him fast. Where you bite when he’s already balls-deep inside you and trying not to come. You’ve told him before—“You make the best noises when I kiss you here”—and ever since, he’s been weirdly conscious of it. Not shy. Just aware.

He feels your breath against his throat before he feels your hands. And if you press your lips just under his jaw, he’ll grip your hips tighter, pulse stuttering beneath your mouth.

As for you? He’s obsessed with your lower stomach. Not your waist. Not your chest. Not your ass, though he likes that too. No—your soft belly, the space between your hips and pelvis, where your skin is tender and warm and just slightly sensitive. The place he rests his palm over after he’s finished inside you, the place he drags his knuckles across when you’re lying on the couch.

It’s the quietest, most vulnerable part of your body—and it undoes him.

He once fucked you on your side, your back to his chest, his hand pressed firm against your stomach like he wanted to keep all of himself inside you.

And when you asked what that was about, why he held you there like that, he just said,

“I like feeling you. Right there. Where I know I left something.”

Then he kissed the spot again—slow, almost reverent—and didn’t say another word.

♡ C = Cum Frank tries to be responsible. Really. He’s too old to be careless, and the last thing he needs is another complication in a situation that’s already cheating on every level. But the moment you whisper something reckless—something like “Don’t pull out”—he’s gone. Gone in that way that makes his eyes roll back, his grip turn bruising, and his body collapse against yours like he’s coming apart.

His cum is thick, warm, and there’s something primal in the way he watches it drip out of you. He doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes speaks volumes: guilt, lust, possessiveness, a thousand unspoken regrets.

He’ll clean you up in silence, gently, with a trembling hand. Then he’ll sit back, ring still on, and mutter:

“We shouldn’t’ve done that… again.”

And yet—he never leaves right after.

♡ D = Dirty Secret Frank has this one recurring fantasy—one he’d never admit out loud, even if you pressed him with your tongue and teeth and teasing fingers. It’s not elaborate. It’s not even that graphic. It’s domestic. Dangerous in its simplicity.

He imagines waking up in your bed. Not rushed. Not hiding. No pager. No wedding ring. Just you, your bare legs tangled with his, and the soft sound of the coffee maker burbling in the background. He imagines brushing his teeth in your sink. Pulling your shirt over your head instead of unbuttoning it under stress. Maybe taking you right there against the kitchen counter while you laugh, not cry.

But that’s the dirtiest part of it: the wanting. Not just the sex, not just the high—you. The idea of you as his instead of hers. And he hates himself for it.

Which is probably why he fucks you the way he does. Like he’s trying to bury the fantasy before it makes him do something irreversible.

♡ E = Experience Frank’s the kind of man who doesn't advertise how much he knows—but you feel it. From the first time he touched you, it was obvious. He doesn’t second-guess himself. Doesn’t fumble with your bra clasp or ask nervous questions. He reads you.

But here's the thing: Frank doesn’t move like a man who’s had hundreds of partners. He moves like a man who’s had maybe a handful, and still memorized every one. He carries experience like he carries guilt—quietly, heavy, with no need to boast. He’s all practiced hands and measured control, but there's something about the way he watches your reactions that tells you this isn’t casual for him. It never has been.

His mouth on your chest, the way he mouths over your nipple and then waits—waits for you to squirm before he sinks his teeth in gently. His fingers inside you, knuckle-deep with that perfect curl like he’s been learning your body over weeks instead of minutes. His hips grinding in slow, devastating circles, his rhythm tuned not to get off but to undo you. Every motion says:

I’ve done this before. But not like this. Not with you.

You ask him once, “Where the hell did you learn to do that with your tongue?”—half-laughing, fully breathless. He just shrugs, lips shiny with you, voice low.

“Long nights. Now shut up and come again.”

He knows how to make a woman feel good. But more than that—he knows what not to do. He’s not reckless. He’s not performative. He doesn’t chase porn-inspired theatrics or put on a show. He listens. He adapts. And he never loses patience.

He’s the kind of experienced that comes from making mistakes and learning from them. From fucking someone the wrong way once and swearing he’ll never do it again. From years of hearing what women don’t say out loud.

And now? He’s the man who lays you back with calm hands, mouths at your throat, and says things like,

“Let me take care of it. I know what you need.”

And for once in your goddamn life—you believe it.

♡ F = Favorite Position Frank likes positions where he doesn’t have to think too hard—where muscle memory takes over and guilt has to get in line behind pleasure. That usually means either cowgirl, where he can watch your body bounce on his cock, mouth parted in disbelief as you ride him into delirium—or spooning, slow and angled just right so he can stay deep without ever seeing your face.

But when he’s feeling particularly frayed? It’s you bent over a surface. Something with leverage. Something that doesn’t require foreplay or forethought. Just a hand over your mouth, his other on your hip, and a growl in your ear:

“Stay still for me. Just like that. Fuck—just like that.”

♡ G = Goofy Frank isn’t goofy. He doesn’t have it in him—not during sex, and not outside of it either. Even when he wants to be light, the weight of everything he’s holding—his marriage, his kid, his job, you—pulls him back down like an anchor around the throat. But every now and then, right before everything tips over into sex, there’s a flash of something dry and sharp that slips past his guard.

“You gonna make me beg?” he mutters once as you straddle his lap, his belt still unbuckled, his cock hard and twitching against his stomach.

You raise an eyebrow. “Would you?”

He exhales a laugh—one you feel more than hear. “God, no. But I thought I’d ask.”

That’s the closest you get to playful. And it doesn’t last. Because once his hands are on you, Frank goes quiet again—like fun was never an option, only urgency.

♡ H = Hair Frank’s grooming is utilitarian—done out of habit, not vanity. He keeps everything trimmed low, clean, managed. His chest is broad and dusted with a thick layer of dark hair, the kind that trails down his stomach in a narrowing line that you’ve traced with your tongue more times than you can count.

He doesn’t talk about his body much. Doesn’t ask if you like it. But the way your hands explore him—the reverence in the way you touch the back of his neck or drag your fingers through the hair on his stomach—makes his ears flush pink.

The first time you knelt in front of him, mouth open and voice low, and said, “God, I love how you taste,” he went still. Not proud. Not smug. Just wrecked by it.

♡ I = Intimacy Frank is at his most intimate before the sex starts. It’s in the way he presses his forehead to yours when your lips are still inches apart.

The way he exhales through his nose like he’s grounding himself with you. There’s a heavy, trembling kind of closeness to it—a sense that he’s trying to earn this moment even as he knows it’s already broken.

He doesn’t call it love. Not out loud. But it seeps through everything he does when he lets himself feel instead of just fuck. His hands cradle your hips like you're fragile. His mouth brushes over your sternum, your shoulder, your lower back like he’s memorizing you in fragments. Sometimes he says your name, but it’s barely audible. Like speaking it too loud might shatter whatever spell you’re both under.

There’s one night where he’s buried deep inside you, rhythm slow, his eyes open the entire time. And he says—barely more than a whisper

“This should be you. This should’ve always been you.”

Then he kisses you like a man confessing, not apologizing.

♡ J = Jack off Frank jerks off with his jaw tight and his hand wrapped in guilt. It’s not frequent—he’s too tired, too wound up—but when he does, it’s never aimless. It’s always about you. Sometimes it's the memory of you spread out in the on call room. Sometimes it’s the way you moaned when he slid two fingers inside you while the ER intercom called his name. But the one that undoes him the fastest is the memory of your mouth—wet, open, eager, eyes locked with his while you sink down onto him like you need it to breathe.

He doesn’t stroke himself lazily. He’s fast, impatient. Like he’s trying to get it over with before the shame sets in.

He finishes with a grunt, low and strained, and then stares at the wall for several minutes—ring glinting on his left hand, heart still racing, and every part of him aching for a life he doesn’t have the right to want.

♡ K = Kink Frank’s kink isn’t loud or flashy. It’s not about toys or pain or showmanship. It’s ownership. Not possessive, but emotional. He wants to feel like he’s the only one who’s ever touched you this way, even if he knows it’s a lie.

He wants you to wear him. He wants to leave marks—thumbprints on your thighs, the shadow of his beard on your neck, his cum dripping out of you hours after he’s gone. He wants to fuck you slow and deep, whispering, ��Mine,” like the word can undo the rest of his life.

He also has a fixation with your underwear. Specifically, the ones you leave behind. He keeps a pair in the glovebox of his car. Never told you. Just… couldn’t throw them away. One night, when everything felt like it was crumbling, he took them out, buried his face in the soft cotton, and fucked his fist until he came so hard he had to bite down on the seatbelt.

He told himself that was the last time. He was wrong.

♡ L = Location Frank doesn’t have the luxury of variety. He’s too cautious, too paranoid. But when it is possible? He likes confined, inhabited spaces. Places with walls. A door. Something that can be locked—not just for discretion, but because it’s the only way he can let go.

Your apartment is a rare treat. He doesn’t visit often, but when he does, he fucks you like he’s trying to remember what it feels like to be wanted—not just used or needed or tolerated. Your bed. Your shower. That one time he bent you over your kitchen sink while your pasta boiled behind you.

♡ M = Motivation Frank is most turned on when he’s emotionally overwhelmed. Anger, fear, grief, guilt—he doesn’t process them the way others do. He bottles them. Carries them. And eventually, they come spilling out in your direction, usually with his hands wrapped around your waist and his cock buried inside you like he’s trying to forget the world.

There’s a hunger in him he doesn’t understand. It’s not just about needing to fuck—it’s about needing you. Needing your laugh, your defiance, your softness. The way you touch his face like it doesn’t scare you. The way you moan like you’re not afraid of what this could become.

Sometimes you’ll say something simple—“You look tired,” or “You could stay the night”—and he’ll snap. Not with anger, but with desperation. He’ll kiss you too hard, yank your shirt over your head, push you onto the couch like he needs to be inside you before the thought has time to settle.

He’s turned on by danger. But more than that? He’s turned on by hope. And that scares him more than anything.

♡ N = No Frank has a lot of rules—some spoken, most not. No overnights. No coming to his house. No calling after 10PM. No talking about his kid.

No unprompted “I miss you” texts.

But in bed, his no’s are subtler. He doesn’t degrade. He won’t humiliate you, even if you ask him to. He won’t call you a slut or slap you across the face or spit in your mouth, because no matter how far he’s fallen, some lines still feel sacred.

“I’m not that guy,” he mutters, the first time you ask. He says it like it’s a promise he’s barely keeping.

And above all else—he won’t let you say “I love you.”

Not during. Not after. Not ever.

If the words so much as hover, he’ll pull away—physically, emotionally, all of it.

He’s a lot of things, but he refuses to lie to himself that much.

♡ O = Oral Frank eats pussy like he’s starving and like it’s the last thing he’s allowed to enjoy. He starts slow—one hand anchoring your thigh open, the other curled around your knee—just tasting, just learning. But once he figures out what makes your hips twitch? He doubles down like a man obsessed.

He flattens his tongue and grinds it against your clit in wide, deliberate strokes, low groans vibrating in his throat while your fingers lock in his hair.

He’ll wrap his lips around you, suck softly, then lap like it’s a compulsion.

He doesn’t always look up at you. Sometimes, he keeps his eyes closed—like the taste of you is something holy. Like looking would break whatever spell you’re both under.

Receiving? He likes it. Quietly. Doesn’t demand it, but won’t say no either. Especially when you do it with that same reverence—like you’re trying to take care of a man who doesn’t know how to let anyone take care of him.

His favorite is when you kneel without asking. Not for power. But for intention.

♡ P = Pace Frank’s pace is a paradox—unrelenting but measured. He isn’t reckless. He doesn’t slam into you blindly or chase climax like a teenager. When he fucks, he fucks like he’s thinking about it. Calculating every thrust. Dragging the head of his cock against that sweet spot inside you until your legs shake and your voice breaks on his name.

There’s a rhythm to it. Intentional. Sometimes fast and unforgiving—especially when he’s punishing himself for wanting you again. But just as often, he’s slow—achingly, deliberately slow, grinding in deep with every pass like he wants to brand you from the inside out.

“You feel that?” he mutters into your hair, hips pressed flush to yours.

“That’s me. All of me. Right there.”

♡ Q = Quickie Quickies aren’t casual for Frank—they’re necessary. He doesn’t always have the time or privacy for long, drawn-out sessions. So when the urge hits—and it always does—he’ll take you up against a wall, over a sink, half-out-of-breath with one hand on your mouth and the other under your skirt.

He’s fast but focused. Two fingers inside you, thumb circling just right while he groans against your shoulder. Or he’ll unzip just enough, slide in without even getting you fully undressed, fucking you so hard and so quiet it leaves your knees shaking after.

But afterward? He doesn’t look at you. Not right away. He adjusts his belt. Runs a hand through his hair.

And then says, in a voice you’ve learned to decipher, “That can’t happen again.”

(It always happens again.)

♡ R = Risk Every part of this is a risk. He knows that. The affair, the secrecy, the emotion. But Frank takes calculated risks—never reckless ones. He’s not about spectacle. He doesn’t want to get caught. But something about the possibility of it? Of fucking you behind a closed office door while his wife texts him about dinner plans? It twists something in him.

He won't admit how much he likes it. But he’s more dangerous than he looks.

One time, he fingered you in the backseat of his car while parked behind the hospital dumpster, a security camera blinking red in the corner of the lot.

“You’re gonna get me fired,” you whispered.

His reply? A low, growled, “Then be quiet.”

♡ S = Stamina Frank can’t go all night. But what he can do is make one round feel like five. He draws it out. Foreplay like a slow burn. Hands and tongue and murmured filth until you’re practically begging for him. And once he’s inside? He lasts. He holds off until he’s sure you’ve come—at least once, usually twice—before letting himself fall apart.

When he does come, it’s with a deep grunt, whole body shuddering against yours, head bowed like he’s ashamed of how hard he needed it.

If the moment’s right? He can go again. Not fast. But again. Especially if you’re on top, your mouth at his neck, whispering, “Don’t think. Just fuck me.”

♡ T = Toys Frank doesn’t own toys himself, but he’s open. Cautiously curious. He doesn’t need them—but he’s not threatened by them either.

You bring out a vibe once. He watches you use it, pants unzipped, fingers loosely stroking himself while your thighs shake from the stimulation. Then, he replaces the toy with his tongue. And then his cock. And later, he asks, “You use that when I’m not here?”

You nod.

He kisses you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Next time? He tells you to bring it before he shows up.

♡ U = Unfair Frank is brutal when it comes to teasing—but not in a playful way. In a psychological warfare kind of way. He doesn’t just edge you, he holds you hostage with it. Hands between your thighs, fingers stroking just shy of where you need him, lips dragging down your chest but never far enough.

“You want me to stop?” he asks.

You shake your head, eyes pleading.

“Then take it. Come on. Take what I give you.”

Sometimes he pulls out just to watch you squirm. Sometimes he fucks you with two fingers, murmuring, “Look at how desperate you get for me,” while refusing to let you come. It’s not about dominance—it’s about control. His own, and the way yours crumbles for him.

♡ V = Volume Frank is quiet. Too quiet. His sounds are guttural, close to his chest—like he’s afraid someone might hear. But when he’s really lost in it? He groans. Deep, low, filthy groans that vibrate through your bones.

He pants your name, curses under his breath, grits out lines like, “So fucking tight,” or “You feel like heaven.” And if he’s fucking you from behind? You might catch a rare, shaky moan when you clench around him just right.

The loudest he’s ever been was the time you rode him slow, keeping eye contact the whole time. He came with a strangled, “Fuck—baby, I can’t—shit,” and bit your shoulder to muffle himself.

You still have the mark.

♡ W = Wild Card Frank had a voicemail saved on his phone. He’s listened to it over a dozen times, never all at once, always in pieces. It’s your voice. It wasn’t even meant to be sexy—it was accidental, late at night, after a call he ignored because he was at home eating microwave spaghetti with his kid on the couch.

You hadn’t said his name. You hadn’t said much at all. Just a breathy laugh, some rustling sheets, and the quietest whisper:

“Wish you were here.”

The silence that followed was louder than anything else. No background noise. No music. Just you. Lying in a bed you’d made room for him in. And then, click. Gone.

He couldn’t delete it. Still hasn’t. Keeps it tucked under fake contact info labeled "ADMIN EXT. 7" in case his wife ever scrolls.

One night, when things at home were at their most tense—after a fight about money, about time, about why he never seems present—he snuck out under the guise of a late call shift. He sat in his car, parked four blocks from your apartment, and played that voicemail on a loop. He never came to your door. Never called. Just listened.

Over and over.

When he finally showed up the next morning, eyes bloodshot, collar loose, you thought he’d been drinking. But he hadn’t.

He just missed you. Missed the idea of you.

The life he doesn’t have. The calm he doesn’t know how to deserve.

You opened the door, and he kissed you like he hadn’t slept in weeks. Didn’t say a word—just backed you up against the wall, one hand under your shirt, the other gripping your face like he needed to feel if you were real.

Later, when he came inside you with his mouth at your shoulder and your nails raking down his back, he murmured against your skin:

“I heard you. That night. I listened to all of it.”

And then—just barely—

“Don’t stop saying shit like that. Even if I can’t answer.”

He eventually deletes the voicemail. Not because he wants to. But because he knows if he doesn’t, he’ll never go home again.

♡ X = X-ray His cock matches the rest of him: thick, veined, a little curved, uncut. Not massive, but enough—the kind that stretches you just right, the kind that leaves you sore in the best way.

He doesn’t strut. He doesn’t talk about it. But when he sees your breath hitch as he lines himself up? He smirks.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low. “That’s it. You remember.”

♡ Y = Yearning His sex drive is tied to his emotions—always has been. He doesn’t want you casually. He wants you like a pressure valve. Like medicine. Like something he can’t name without unraveling.

He craves you when he’s mad. When he’s scared. When he sees you laughing with someone else. He’ll spend a whole day avoiding your texts, pretending he doesn’t want you—and then show up at midnight, half-drunk and out of excuses, kissing you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You’re not his mistress. You’re his escape. And that yearning? It’s never going away.

♡ Z = Zzz Frank never intends to fall asleep with you. He always tells himself he’ll leave. That he’ll zip up, slip out, and get back to the life he built before you broke it open.

But sometimes… he stays. Just a little longer. Just until your breathing slows. Just until your hand settles on his chest.

And then he’s out. Deep, quiet sleep—body heavy against yours, arm slung across your stomach, leg hooked over your thigh like he forgot where he was.

When he wakes up? He panics.

But in those few hours, he looks peaceful. Younger. Like the man he might’ve been in a different life.

[greengoblinswifey]

His Valentine—Hwang In-Ho/Front Man x Fem!Reader

summary— As Valentine’s day approaches, the man who saved you from the Squid Game and your debts once again proves he’d do anything to make you feel adored and cherished.

warnings— mention of dead parents, praise kink, fluff, slight sugar baby undertones, dry humping, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie.

a/n— Man, fuck Valentine’s day🙏🏽

Your life had always been a struggle, one that built up until you found yourself participating in the Squid Game. The debt left by your deceased parents was overwhelming, and with no other options available, you had no choice but to participate in the game that would either kill you or change your life forever.

But then came him. Hwang In-ho, someone who had been watching from behind the scenes, someone you hadn’t known was there, someone who made sure you survived, even when you didn’t know you had an angel watching over you. He saw you. He admired you. And when the final game ended and you were left standing, he didn’t let you walk away alone. He pulled you from that world and offered you a chance at life, a life away from the games, away from the debts that had once nearly swallowed you whole.

He paid for everything, your bills, your rent, the necessities of life that you’d never been able to afford. Everything was taken care of. He made sure you had everything you needed. No more worrying about where the next meal was coming from, no more fearing that the debt collectors would come knocking again. You were safe and free.

But freedom came with a price. He was the front man, the person behind the games, the one who controlled everything. The one who allowed people to die for entertainment. The morality of his life was a complicated thing, but with you, he was gentle. He was kind. He was the best boyfriend you could have ever asked for, always caring for you in ways you didn’t know you deserved.

As Valentine’s Day approached, you knew he would do something grand. He always did. But still, you had never been in a relationship like this before, never had a boyfriend who took care of you in such luxurious ways. You’d never had anyone to spoil you like he did. You’d always been on your own, scraping by, but with him, it was different. So when Valentine’s morning arrived, you hadn’t even realized it. The bed beside you was empty, but you didn’t think much of it. He had work to do, important things. You got ready, figuring it would be like any other day.

Then you walked into the kitchen, and your breath caught in your throat.

There, on the counter, sat an enormous bouquet of roses. You stood frozen, staring at the card in your hands.

Will you be my Valentine?

Your heart raced. You couldn’t believe it. You had never had someone give you something so extravagant, so perfect.

Before you could fully take it all in, you felt a presence behind you. Strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into a warm embrace.

“You really are the sweetest,” you whispered.

In-ho chuckled softly, his breath tickling against your ear. “I’m glad you like it,” he murmured. “I’ve got some business to take care of today, but tonight, I’m all yours.”

You smiled as you kissed him on the cheek, knowing that despite his dangerous responsibilities, he always made you feel safe. He was always there, always thoughtful.

“I can’t wait,” you said softly.

Later, when you went downstairs, a car was waiting for you, and when you got inside, In-ho was there with a smile that made your heart flutter. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” he said as he opened the door for you.

He’d thought of everything, always one step ahead. The restaurant was chic, upscale, everything you’d never imagined for yourself. When you arrived at the table, there were bags waiting for you, each one filled with extravagant gifts. Designer jewelry, Birkins you’d only dreamed of, expensive shoes you would have never been able to afford and yet another bouquet of roses that made you feel like you were the center of the universe. It was all so over the top, but it wasn’t the gifts that made it special, it was the way he looked at you, the way he made you feel.

He complimented you all night, making you laugh, telling you how much you meant to him. He made sure to remind you that you were more than just someone he took care of, you were someone he truly cherished. The night was perfect in a way you never thought possible. You were with him, the man who saved you, the man who had given you everything you could ever need.

By the time you got home, you were exhausted, but your heart was full. He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you as you both lay on the couch, the soft sound of your breathing mingling in the quiet room.

“I told you,” he whispered softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Tonight, I’m all yours.”

And as you rested in his arms, you felt for the first time in your life, you had something that was perfect.

Now, seated on his lap in the bedroom with rose petals and candles around you, you traced your fingers over his jaw, pressing gentle kisses along his cheek, his temple, down to his neck. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For everything, In-ho.”

His hands rested firmly on your waist, holding you close. “You don’t have to thank me, love,” he murmured, brushing a hand down to your ass, squeezing gently. “You deserve this. All of it.”

“Still, I want to,” you whispered, lips inches away from his.

His grip on you tightened ever so slightly as you shifted in his lap. He let out a soft moan when you began moving on his hard, clothed cock, his hand smoothing down your back. “My pretty girl,” he murmured. “Always so ready for me.”

Your forehead was pressed against his, breath mingling as his hands traced comforting circles against your hips. You moved back and forth, pressing your pussy on his bulge, the friction against your clit sending pleasure jolting through you. “I love you,” you murmured, fingers going into his dark hair as you gripped to steady yourself.

His lips met yours in a slow, lingering kiss, fingers going to your ass as he guided you to grind. “I love you too,” he whispered, tilting his head to deepen it, savoring you. “More than you know.”

You couldn’t respond, your pussy was already quivering as his large hands cupped your ass, squeezing and coaxing you to grind faster. Small whimpers escaped your lips and you gripped his shoulder, throwing your head back.

“That’s it. Feels so good, doesn’t it love?” he said, gaze locked with yours.

“Wanna c-cum,” you moaned, grinding your hips even faster now.

“Do it sweetheart, cum for me. You’ve been such a good girl, my good girl.” His words sent you over the edge and your entire body convulsed, your release washing over you like a tidal wave.

He didn’t give you a moment to catch you breath, instead, he lifted you from his lap and placed you on the bed. He left small kisses on your inner thigh, sending shivers through you.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured. His hands smoothed over your thighs, slowly taking off your panties then running his hands over you again, savoring every inch of you like you were something precious—because to him, you were.

“In-ho,” you moaned, his name leaving your lips in a breathless sigh, and he responded with a quiet hum, pressing a lingering kiss to your clit before glancing up at you.

“My perfect girl,” he murmured. “You deserve to be worshiped.”

Your fingers ran through his dark hair as he took his time, his tongue moving with a patience that had your heart pounding. Every touch of his hands, every press of his lips against your pussy sent warmth rushing through you. You never knew a man eating your pussy could be so intimate.

“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmured between sucking, his hands gripping your hips gently. “All mine.”

Your back arched slightly, a whimper slipping past your lips as his tongue lapped at your juices faster. Your head tilted back, overwhelmed by the way he made you feel, your legs now shaking.

He looked up at you, dark eyes filled with something deeper than lust, affection and love. “I fucking love you,” he murmured into your pussy.

Your breath caught as your grip in his hair tightened slightly. “I love you too, fuck,” you whimpered, feeling yourself completely unravel under his touch.

He didn’t stop ravishing you until you were trembling beneath him with your pussy juices squirted all over his mouth and his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

After he was finished, lips and chin glistening, he hovered above you, his eyes lust blown. “Can I fuck you, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and husky.

You wrapped your arms around him, heart thundering from how much you needed him. “Please, In-ho,” you breathed, eyes equally as lust blown as him.

He slipped off his boxers, hard cock springing free and slapping against his abdomen. You never got tired of seeing it. The tip was leaking with pre cum and he rubbed it along your folds.

“No teasing,” you whined, “I need your cock so bad.”

He smirked, lining the heavy tip with your leaking entrance. Your foreheads pressed together, jaws falling agape as his cock slowly inched inside you. He stretched your walls, your pussy making way for his sheer size.

“Fucking hell, you feel like Heaven, love,” he groaned.

He gave you a minute to adjust before slamming into you with every inch. Your nails immediately went to his back leaving a trail of fire in its wake as he thrusted into you steadily. Each time he went in, you could feel him in your cervix and you clenched around him tightly. Only he could make you feel so loved and cherished whenever he had you at his mercy.

“You’re so pretty under me like this,” he praised, eyes going from his cock moving inside you to your face.

You reached between your bodies, rubbing your clit, pleasure surging through your body and making you arch into him.

“Aww, feels good doesn’t it? Take this cock, sweetheart, take this cock and rub your clit.”

You spread your legs even wider and captured his lips into a desperate kiss.

“God, I’m gonna cum,” you said, breath strangled and tipping your head back.

His hand snaking around your throat snapped you back to reality. “Eyes on me, keep rubbing that clit and cum on this dick.”

The dominance he had always did it for you. Your fingers went to your bundle of nerves, rubbing at the same fast pace he was pounding into you. His hand around your throat tightened and he took your breath away in a deep kiss, as you felt an intense orgasm take ahold of you. Your legs shook, and you cried out but he still continued pounding into you, your pussy squirting on his cock, soaking him and the sheets below.

“Holy shit. My good girl. My perfect angel,” he muttered. “It’s my turn to cum now and I’m doing it inside you.”

You wrapped your legs around him and with a few more deep strokes, he emptied his load inside your pussy with a deep guttural moan. You trembled in his arms, holding on to him to ground yourself.

As you both came down from cloud nine, In-ho pressed a kiss to your forehead, his fingers gently brushing over your cheek. His dark eyes, still clouded with adoration, softened as he cupped your face.

“You took me so well,” he murmured. “So good for me. My sweet girl, my beautiful girl.”

His hands never left you as he helped you sit up. You barely registered when he scooped you into his arms, carrying you through the dimly lit hall.

The moment he stepped into the bathroom, your eyes lit up. A warm bath was already drawn, the water laced with the soft pink color of your favorite strawberry bath bomb. Candles flickered along the edge of the tub, their golden glow reflecting off rose petals floating on the surface.

“You planned all this?” you whispered, turning to him in awe.

“Of course I did. You deserve it.”

Gently, he lowered you into the warm water, his strong hands supporting you before he slipped in behind you. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his chest, his lips finding your neck.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love,” he murmured.

You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect night.

[ak319]

Lovesick A.M x f!reader

--★ 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 she’s gone too far, or if he’s fallen too deep. Warnings/MDNI: Age gap (you are in early 20's and Arthur is 30-31), pining, angst, fluff. ✰ -11k.

“Well, wasn’t that easy? Been a long time since I enjoyed a robbery like that,” Hosea chuckled, tugging down his bandana.

Arthur glanced at the bag tied to the horse, heavy with valuables, and gave a small nod. “Definitely.”

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. Arthur’s 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.

“Uh, Hosea,” Arthur started, breaking the calm, “I’ve got an errand to run.”

“An errand? At this time of night?” Hosea raised a brow, his tone lightly scolding. “You oughta rest now, son. You’ve earned it.”

“No, no, jus' need to head into town for a bit. Won’t be long, don’t you worry.”

Hosea paused for a moment, then gave a knowing smile and nodded. “Alright, if you say so. Just don’t go gettin’ yourself into trouble.”

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 animal’s neck. Was this even a good idea? Why was it all so damn complicated?

There’s 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.

Don’t think about her. Just don’t.

There’s no harm in it, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t look at her, it’s strange. Keep your distance.

A few stolen glances don’t mean anything when she’s far away, right?

And yet he does.

Don’t 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.

“Yes, sir? How may I help you? By the way, there’s a 15% discount on the winter stock. Perhaps you’d like to try the waistcoats?”

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 he’d noticed before.

“Can you show me that hat?”

The shopkeeper immediately retrieved it with a practiced hand and held it out with a smile. “Our latest and most popular piece, sir. Only $22.”

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."

Arthur’s lips curled into a faint smile, but it quickly faded as he turned back to the shelves. “I saw a scarf, too. The one with the, uh... rose pattern.”

“Oh, the women’s one! Let me fetch it for you.”

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 he’d given more than what was asked.

The shopkeeper’s voice called out behind him, but Arthur had already turned, mounting his Irish Draught, Clover, and riding off without a second glance.

He’d be wearing the rose hat, and you’d 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t stop watching.

Couldn’t stop wanting.

You didn’t 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 didn’t fit, the way you wanted to leave. And maybe that’s 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 wasn’t much, but it was a start.

He didn’t 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, you’d wanted out. To leave the camp, carve out a life of your own, away from the shadow of the gang. But Hosea couldn’t 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 he’d led, the blood he’d 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 she’d 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 couldn’t help but wonder how much better it would be if you made it with love.

❀˖°

With a final pat to Clover’s 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 we’re 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." Dutch’s 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 wasn’t how he’d planned to spend the evening. Not at all. He’d been hoping to retreat to his tent, to let his mind drift into thoughts of you, to finally sit and think about the gift he’d 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 wasn’t 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?!" Hosea’s 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 , nothing’s worse than a selfish, disloyal piece of trash that you just had to take in because-"

"Enough! No! Don’t 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!"

Arthur’s 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 you’d started it, hadn’t you? You always had a problem with Dutch’s 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 didn’t 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--it’s... yeah, she shouldn’t have said that," Arthur muttered, the words clumsy and heavy on his tongue.

Dutch hummed, a slow and pointed sound, as though weighing Arthur’s response and finding it just barely acceptable. Arthur didn’t 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 Arthur’s chest ache. Hosea’s 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. She’s not my responsibility. She’s not mine.

He wanted to say something to Hosea, to offer comfort or at least commiseration, but his feet wouldn’t 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 wasn’t just the touch. It was the idea that you could be his, fully, if only you’d 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 didn’t care, did you? You’d 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 he’d 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 couldn’t push down, no matter how much he tried. The kind that made him crave something from you that you didn’t even know you had to give. Something more. Something that would finally make you stay.

Sleep wouldn’t 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 couldn’t have, unable to chase the fleeting peace of sleep because they haunted you in ways you couldn’t name. He wanted you to understand how it felt to be unraveled by longing, to have your very being tethered to someone who wouldn’t even look your way.

But then...what was he even saying?

Why did he keep forgetting the truth? That you didn’t deserve his anger, his silent pleas for recognition. That the fault wasn’t yours for not seeing him, no, it was his for daring to want you in the first place. Of course, you wouldn’t 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 wouldn’t 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 couldn’t stop himself. The heart never makes sense, does it? It doesn’t 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 weren’t 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 you’d long suspected but never wanted confirmed. You weren’t really theirs. You weren’t 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 didn’t care anymore. You were tired. Tired of the games, the blind loyalty to Dutch’s 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 didn’t leak when it rained, a place where fear didn’t cling to the walls like smoke. But that dream stayed out of reach, just like everything else. Hosea wouldn’t let you go. He was scared to lose you, to lose something that was never even his.

Pathetic.

That’s what it was. That’s what they all were. And maybe Molly was right, Dutch’s charm was nothing but poison, bleeding into everything and everyone

"Bastard..."

You wanted a job, something stable to call your own. Or, if that wasn’t 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 couldn’t 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.

Hosea’s familiar voice drifted in from nearby, low and steady as he spoke with Abigail. No doubt she was serving him food since you hadn’t bothered to. The sound grated on you, making you roll your eyes and turn to the other side of your bedroll. It wouldn’t 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.

❀˖°

"Why do you do all this?"

Not did that. Do this.

Arthur’s voice was low, almost fragile, but there was a weight to it. A question layered with meanings he couldn’t bring himself to say outright. He just hoped you’d 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 didn’t 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 wasn’t fear he wanted from you, not respect or even obedience. It was something, anything, that showed he wasn’t 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 wasn’t going to do either of you any good, not today.

"You’re wasting your breath on someone who isn't listening to whatever you have to say."

"Then I’ll just keep talkin’ 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. “(Y/N)...dear, today or tomorrow, you’ve got to apologize to Dutch and bury this hatchet.”

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. “You want me to apologize to him?! For what?. Just for talking to you about something I’ve wanted to for so damn long?!”

Arthur’s 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 couldn’t 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.

“It’s not about what was said, it’s about how it was said. Dutch... he’s not perfect, but he’s trying. We all are.”

“Trying? 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 don’t drag me into it.”

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.

“You’ve got too much pride,�� Hosea muttered, shaking his head in exasperation.

"And you’ve got too much blind loyalty."

Hosea held your gaze, his own softening but remaining firm. "Look, let me say this again, this isn’t about the words you said, it’s 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, it’s suddenly a problem?! That’s rich."

"It doesn't matter!" Hosea’s voice rose slightly before he caught himself, lowering it to a pleading tone. "And quiet down, don’t create a scene, again. Have mercy on your old man, at least. For now, we’re in the camp, and as long as we are, Dutch shouldn’t be disrespected like that. You can be as angry as you want with me, but please, just apologize to him. He’s 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. "I’ll 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 Hosea’s 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 she’s 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 man’s 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 that’s it. They’re 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 that’s 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 won’t hold onto it, not like that. And she... she’ll forget too. You’ll see."

Hosea let out a dry chuckle, wiping a stray tear from his weathered cheek. "She? I don’t think so. Not about this. When it comes to this topic, she won’t 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 it’s not easy. It’s not."

He gestured vaguely toward the camp, the flickering lantern light catching in his tired eyes. "Leaving all this behind, all of you, it’d feel like... like a betrayal. Even if I left on a good note, it wouldn’t sit right. Do you get what I mean?"

Arthur nodded, his posture relaxing now that you weren’t 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 couldn’t 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. "Jus’ don’t 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 Arthur’s hand shot out, grabbing Hosea’s with a suddenness that made the older man freeze. His eyes, wide and questioning, met Arthur’s with a flicker of concern.

"Um--there’s... something that I want to..." Arthur’s voice faltered as he cleared his throat. His gaze darted to the ground, to the side, anywhere but Hosea’s 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?"

Arthur’s 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 he’d 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 couldn’t say.

 For her.

It’s 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.

Hosea’s face was unreadable at first, but then he saw the scarf, and a brief chuckle escaped him, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I thought it was clear I’m a man, Arthur."

The joke hit Arthur like a slap, and he couldn’t help but feel his chest tighten. God, this was harder than he’d 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.

Arthur’s cheeks flushed a deep pink, his entire body trembling with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. The thought of Hosea’s reaction, the uncertainty of what might follow this moment, made him question if he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life. Would Hosea kill him? Would he laugh at him? Or worse, would he pity him?

Hosea’s eyes bore into him, patient, yet expectant. "Well, boy?"

Arthur’s mouth went dry, but he forced the words out. "It’s for... (Y/N)."

For a moment, there was a stillness, and then to his shock, Hosea’s 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 couldn’t quite name, but it was there in the way Hosea’s gaze softened. "Really?"

Arthur barely had the strength to nod, his eyes avoiding Hosea’s, his face burning with embarrassment and a kind of fear he couldn’t 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..."

Hosea’s hand reached out to pat Arthur’s arm in an almost fatherly gesture, a gentle smile forming on his face. "Well then... I’ll be sure to give it to her. Thank you. Y’know... you’re the only one I trust after me."

Arthur’s heart skipped a beat, the words sinking in like the heaviest of weights. It felt like he’d won a game, but one he hadn’t even realized he was playing.

Arthur’s throat tightened at the thought, his breath catching. He hadn’t even realized how much he’d 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 he’d ever expected.

"Just... tell her to, you know... don’t burn it at least," he muttered, his chuckle awkward and thin. But the words weren’t 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 couldn’t let that happen.

If you did something like that, if you so much as damaged it, he... he didn’t know what he’d 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."

❀˖°

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 you’d felt calm enough to sit still and stitch something--anything--together without your mind wandering.

"I’m proud of you, y'know. You apologized. Thank you." Hosea’s 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 didn’t give him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Even if you’d 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 you’d ever admit.

The silence stretched out between you as you continued to sew, the rhythmic motion almost comforting. But Hosea’s 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, he’s 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 won’t stay here forever, either, Papa! Hell, I won't! And you’re here finding ways to bind me here?! I understand everything! Don’t think I’m a fool!"

You couldn’t 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, you’re 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, won’t ask about our background? Won’t dig into our truth? You want something built on lies, instead of what’s 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,' haven’t 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 didn’t 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.

❀˖°

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 wasn’t 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, didn’t mind Arthur’s company, even encouraged it.

The words Hosea had said echoed in your mind, lingering like smoke. "If I couldn’t, 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 weren’t so sure. Arthur? The golden boy of Dutch’s 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 didn’t 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 didn’t know. And that uncertainty, it made you uncomfortable. Because you weren’t 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 couldn’t 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 couldn’t stop thinking about it, and worse, he couldn’t 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. He’d break the sky and bring the world to your feet if you ever gave him that smile. 

He longed for that.

But no, that’s just a dream, Arthur thought with a resigned sigh, closing his journal and resting his hands on his knees. You wouldn’t even notice me that way. I'm just some damn fool in Dutch’s gang.

❀˖°

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.

“Evenin’,” Arthur mumbled, his voice unusually hesitant.

Hosea nodded in acknowledgment, setting his cup down. “Evening, Arthur.”

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.

“I was wonderin’... if I could take her out. Just, ya know, get her outta this camp for a bit. I figure... she could use some air.” 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 hadn’t been in the mood for any of this. "I am absolutely fine staying here, got it?"

Arthur’s 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. “You’re not fine. Not always, and not here.”

“What 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!”

Arthur took a step back, but not because he was intimidated. He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for the right words. “Ain’t about me decidin’ nothin’. You don’t even gotta like me. But you deserve better than to keep hiding in this damn camp, snappin' at everyone tryin' to care for you.”

 "You’ve got some nerve asking me that. I don't need anyone taking me anywhere. Just 'cause you brought me a damn scarf doesn’t 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 wasn’t offended, he understood.

Your glare didn’t falter, but Hosea cleared his throat before you could respond. “He’s got a point, my dear.” His tone was calm, and measured. “A little ride won’t kill you.”

You crossed your arms. “I 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. “I ain't Dutch. I ain’t gonna force ya into anything. But sometimes, you gotta trust someone’s tryin’ to help, even if it don’t make sense at first.. Just...give me a chance...please.”

Before you could reply, the unmistakable sound of Dutch’s boots approached. “Well, isn’t this cozy,” 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. “Arthur, you’re not causin’ any trouble now, are you?”

“Just talkin’. Nothin’ more.”

Dutch’s gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile growing sharper. “Talkin’, huh? Always knew you had a soft spot, Arthur. You got that puppy-dog look about you. But...you sure you’re barkin’ up the right tree here?”

The air went cold, and you froze, your grip tightening on the knife in your hand. Dutch’s words stung, a mixture of insult and insinuation that made your face burn with anger and shame.

“Dutch,” Hosea interjected, standing up from his crate, his tone calm but firm. “C'mon...don't say that."

Dutch laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I’ll leave y’all to it. Just a little friendly advice, Arthur. Watch where you step. You wouldn’t want to trip.” 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t 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. “Look, I-”

"What? Just go away."

Arthur flinched, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he muttered, his voice low and almost apologetic. “Just...ignore what he said.”

"But what he said was right."

"No, it wasn't." He looked up then, the defensiveness clear as day in his eyes. “It ain’t like that,” he said, his voice firmer now. “Dutch--he just likes to run his mouth. Don’t mean nothin’.”

“Doesn’t it? You didn’t exactly deny it back there.”

“Look, I ain’t tryin’ to make your life harder. I thought maybe... I don’t know. Thought you’d wanna get out for a bit. Thought it might help.”

“Help with what, exactly?” You gestured around you, exasperated.

“I just… I thought it’d be nice. Thought maybe you’d... enjoy it.”

“Enjoy it? Arthur, I don’t even know what you’re trying to do here. Why you’re trying so hard.”

His jaw tightened, his hands balling into fists at his sides before relaxing again. “Maybe I am tryin’, don’t know why you think that’s a crime.”

“I didn’t ask for any of it, I didn’t ask for you or anyone to care.”

He laughed softly, a bitter sound that barely reached his lips. “Yeah. I know. But it ain’t somethin’ I can help. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

“You’re making it more complicated, you know.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I’d rather be here makin’ things complicated than not be here at all.”

You didn’t know what to do with him, with any of this. So you did what you always did, you deflected.

“I’ve got work to do,” 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 don’t 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 didn’t try to stop you, didn’t say anything else, not wanting to draw too much attention to the scene. With a heavy sigh, he decided to go for a ride.

❀˖°

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 didn’t 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 Dutch’s words from earlier weren’t 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 wouldn’t 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 didn’t need anyone in that space, and a part of him liked that. Liked that you existed here, hidden away, out of reach of the world’s harsh gaze. It wasn’t fair or right, but it soothed something deep and primal in him. If he had his way, the world would never touch you. You’d stay tucked away where only he could find you as if this tent was built for the two of you alone. Still, it wasn’t 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. “Leave the flap wide open.”

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.

“Well? What now?”

The sharpness of your tone jolted him back to his senses. For a moment, he still couldn’t believe you’d allowed him inside. Maybe you were too tired to step out yourself, but he couldn’t 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 moment’s hesitation, he dropped to his knee in front of you, his height aligning perfectly with yours now. The act wasn’t 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 wasn’t 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.

“I think you’re only acting like this because Dutch reckons it’s the best way to keep me in line. So that you can scare me or something. Y’know, keep me stuck in this camp so Pa’s happy, Dutch is happy, and my life here is just that much more miserable.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed immediately, his expression a mix of frustration and disbelief. “No,” he said firmly, his voice quiet but resolute. “It ain’t like that. It ain’t even close to that.”

He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting lightly on his knees as he searched for the right words. “Do I look like someone who’d think that way? Or...who’d go along with somethin’ like that? Do you really think Hosea would do that to you? Think about you like that?”

“You ain’t some animal we gotta control, alright? You’re...more than that. Always have been."

Arthur sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I know...there’s a whole lotta differences between us. But...I can’t help myself, y’know? I’ve tried. Lord knows I’ve tried.” 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. “I don’t deserve this, I know that. Hell, you don’t deserve this, either. But one thing I can promise you, right here, right now...I’ll make this better. I’ll try every damn day to make your life here bearable, to give you somethin’ better. Until...”

He stopped himself, biting back the words he wasn’t sure you were ready to hear. “Until I can give you somethin’ far better than all this.”

He paused, his jaw tightening before he met your eyes again. “And no one, not a damn soul, will have the guts to disrespect you here. Not while I’m around.”

“....Not even Dutch?”

Arthur swallowed hard, but he nodded firmly. “Yeah....not even him.”

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.

“If this is all true, then...why didn’t your lover, what was her name? Oh yeah, Mary, who even loved you, stick around?”

Arthur flinched as if you’d 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."

“Okay but if she didn’t trust you enough to stay, then why should I? We’re not even-”

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.

“Here, this...this is the only proof I can give you. I’ll keep fillin’ it, day by day, until we’ve got enough to leave. And you’ll keep it safe. You’ll 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 you’d never admit it.

You stared at the scarf in your hands, his grip firm but trembling ever so slightly. You couldn’t 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 couldn’t 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.

“I just want you to greet me every time I come back…and every time I go. With that smile of yours.” He paused, his gaze dropping for a moment, as though the vulnerability of his words was too much. “That’s all I ask of you...that’s all this idiot asks of you.”

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. “Um...I don't--” You cleared your throat, but the words still wouldn’t 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 wasn’t much, but it was something.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched yours once more. He didn’t 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. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

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 wasn’t 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, he’d finally be able to wear it.

❀˖°

The outlaw's gaze drifted to the sketches, one was complete, your softer expression, that innocent curiosity you had when your guard wasn’t 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 didn’t 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 man’s. 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: •⩊• u better interact for high honour++)

[urbanxcamper]

Do any of the Cullens actually care about Bella? Short answer: no. But it’s a little more complicated than that, and it varies by each of them. They don’t care about her in the way we’re led to believe, or even the way Bella believes they do. Instead, they care about her only insofar as she serves their interests. From the moment Bella enters their orbit, she’s a demonstration of how little the Cullens actually value human life.

The text makes this clear, and Midnight Sun outright spells it out: the Cullens are inherently selfish. Human life is disposable to them. The difference between them and other vampires is that they cosplay as humans, pretending to care while masking their predatory nature. We’re supposed to think they’re “better” than regular vampires, but they’re not. And honestly? That’s what makes them creepy. None of them cared about Bella as a person. Most of them were fine with her being killed if it came to that.

Edward sums this up perfectly in Midnight Sun when he considers what everyone would think if he drained Bella. Rosalie and Jasper wouldn’t care—if anything, they’d feel smug for being right about Edward’s inability to resist. Esme’s concern would be for Edward’s well-being, not Bella’s life. Carlisle would be disappointed but ultimately forgiving. Emmett? He’d shrug it off. Alice might be upset about losing a potential friend, but even that’s questionable. None of them cared enough to oppose the idea strongly; they were just going along with what suited them.

Rosalie, in particular, gets villainized for not liking Bella, but she’s not any worse than the others. The difference is that Rosalie doesn’t lie about her indifference. She doesn’t play mind games or pretend to care. She wasn’t plotting against Bella she just didn’t want Edward’s fixation to endanger the family. Jasper and Emmett, on the other hand, were fine with Edward killing Bella. Rosalie only got involved when Edward started implicating them in his reckless behavior. Even then, she relented when Carlisle insisted they play nice.

Esme, meanwhile, cared more about Edward’s happiness than Bella’s life. If killing Bella made Edward happy, Esme would’ve supported it. If dating her and dooming her to vampirism made Edward happy, Esme welcomed her. Alice? Alice was less concerned about Bella as a person and more about the idea of her as a new “friend” and human Barbie doll. She orchestrated the relationship, fully aware of the danger Bella faced, because she wanted Bella close. She doesn’t care about Bella’s safety; she cares about her own desires.

Jasper? He doesn’t care about Bella as a person. To him, she’s a tantalizing temptation a challenge to overcome and a new ear to hear his Civil War stories. Emmett? He’s just along for the ride. He didn’t think twice about Bella until the family decided to include her. Then she became “Edward’s human,” and that was that. Carlisle? He cared about Bella in the abstract as an innocent girl who didn’t “deserve” to die but his actions show his selfishness. He made vampires without their consent, knowing they’d kill humans, and let Edward pursue Bella, fully aware of the danger. Carlisle’s priority has always been maintaining his moral high ground while indulging his family’s selfish desires.

Ultimately, none of the Cullens cared about Bella beyond what she represented to them: Edward’s pet project, Alice’s new toy, or Carlisle’s opportunity to preach about self-control. They proved this when they abandoned her without a second thought, leaving her unprotected from the supernatural chaos they brought into her life just because Edward said so.

They’re selfish, manipulative predators who pretend to be human for their own twisted reasons. They don’t care about humans, and Bella was no exception. The outrage over Rosalie’s indifference feels hypocritical when none of the Cullens actually cared about Bella either. At least Rosalie was honest about it. She didn’t have a vendetta against Bella she was just upfront about her priorities. Compared to the others, Rosalie’s selfishness is almost refreshing.

Which brings us to the next natural question: does Edward care about Bella? Spoiler: no. He thinks he does, and we’re supposed to believe he does, but that’s a whole other can of worms. In conclusion, no, the Cullens don’t care about Bella not as a person. She was never more than a convenient object of their desires, and that’s the unsettling truth at the heart of their ��family dynamic.”

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

What if the player had a mental breakdown in front of doey kissing dogday (maybe) and poppy? About the explosives maybe and they refused to do it?

I have very complicated feelings about Poppy, I think this reflects that.

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Poppy, Dogday and Doey when the Player has a breakdown over the explosives

Poppy

★ It’s a heavy moral dilemma. Is it kinder to let them all rest, or to fight for a chance at survival, despite the potential suffering? The pressure of deciding such a thing is too much, hands trembling as you hold the explosive.

★ You like the toys in Safe Haven. Despite everything they've been subjected to, they are all still children. Tortured souls who deserve better than this. Observing you closely, Poppy notices the hesitation in your eyes.

★ "It'll be quick" she explains. Her voice is without emotion. You feel your heartbeat quicken, everything about this seems so wrong. Before she can say anything else the Player puts down the explosive. Stepping away to take a breath as the room begins to close in on you.

Dogday

★ He handles the situation surprisingly well. Approaching you slowly to try and avoid scaring you and sitting a safe distance away. Talking softly to calm the Player down and figure out what happened. “Hey,” he says softly, his voice steady but gentle.

★ As you start to cry, a sense of dread fills you. He lowers himself to the Players eye level, careful to avoid overwhelming them further. His protective nature taking over. Dogday doesn’t push the Player to stop crying or pretend everything is fine.

★ His eyes scan the area, searching for any potential threats. Some unwanted attention could be bad. As you pull yourself together, he keeps watch for you. Ready to act if anyone, or anything, tries to take advantage of the state you're in.

★ After making sure the Player is stable, Dogday approaches Poppy. His gaze locking onto her. “What were you thinking?” He asks, voice low but seething with restrained anger. She didn't respond. After this, he keeps a closer eye on her.

Doey

★ He found you while roaming the halls. Not revealing himself just yet in an attempt to figure out what's happening. Doey watches as your breathing quickens. Short, shallow breaths fill your lungs. Leaving you just as quickly.

★ When he comes out of wherever he was hiding, the expression on his face is that of concern. "Hey, what happened buddy?" He asks. Looking you over for any new injuries. Seeing none, Doey puts his hand on your shoulder. But quickly removes it when you flinch.

★ When you finally regain enough composer to tell him what triggered you, he's pissed. Walking towards Poppy while trying in vain to keep his cool. Her plan didn't sit well with him before, but now he has no doubt it's a bad idea. And he's going to tell her that.

[unconventional-lawnchair]

There's not much Barty Crouch Jr content out there. If you don't mind writing about him, can I make a request? After escaping Azkaban, he serves his Lord to the best of his ability, but there is someone from his past that he still can't get out of his mind. A Slytherin and from a family of followers of the Dark Lord. They had a relationship during their youth. After many years, he finds her again. He always had a soft spot for her. But the reader (like Snape, a sort of spy) is secretly thinking against the Dark Lord and stays away from these things as much as possible, but she is definitely in danger. Things are complicated, but the strong attraction and longing between them cannot be ignored...

The Boy I Knew

Barty Crouch Jr. x Black!Fem!Reader

Cw; Y/N, obsessions, one sided love(Barty pining), Barty being unhinged. Reader is morally grey, Remus Lupin onesided love (Rem pining), sexual themes and scenes, mentions of murder}} Please tell me if I missed anything!

AN- this fanfic is now well over what it should have been. I am posting a fraction of the proofread bits as of now, as I realize this is probably not at all what you wanted and if so I am SO sorry. If you want more I have a pouch that just needs to be beta read

Wc-5670

Taglist: @defnotfrey @au-ghosttype

{. 1972 - Barty’s Year 1 .}

Bartemius Crouch Junior couldn't have been older than eleven when he first met {Y/N} Walburga Black.  A cool upperclassman, if only by a year. 

Bartemius, at that ripe age, knew only a handful of things, and two of those was how badly he wanted to be seen and known. He wanted to be seen for who he was, and known for what he would do. That's likely what drew him to you. 

At only twelve, you and your brother had made a name for yourselves, in much different ways. Your brother was popular, for his quick tongue and clever quips, his innate ability to get under anyone's skin and stay there. Those traits could be forgiven, and they always were, for his big heart and intense sense of moral. 

You, however, were known for harboring a few very non Black traits, like your intense empathy and your crazed thirst for knowledge. Even as a Slytherin, your loyalty and curiosity rivaled the students around you tenfold. Your bravery knew no bounds, even with all the wrongs you had been done, you were forgiving and understanding. You were seen by everyone, you were known for everything.

As he got older, he wondered where that forgiveness went. You grew cold.

When he was innocent, when he had done no wrongs, you cradled him in your hands like he was a gift. You looked at him with eyes you shared with everyone, so much care and patience, so much understanding and kindness. So if those eyes were shared with the masses, he struggled, but was determined, to keep them focused on himself at any chance given.

It was obvious to anyone who saw the two interact. Barty wanted to be witnessed by you. The halls filled with the judgeful and teasing murmurs when he found you in the halls.

“There goes {Y/N}’s prodigy.”

“Barty is off to find his guru.”

“That boy will never learn.”

“How annoying.”

Barty had never been ashamed of his declarations for praise. He knew most of the voices were bitter with jealousy. He would be jealous too. You were both so young, and yet even some older students looked to you like you were twice your age, yet every Friday when the tests were returned, you sat in the courtyard and waited for him. Your personal underclassman.

You would meet in the yard and he would brandish his flawless marks, you would praise his abilities in absolute pride. He had never had someone prideful of him before. Everyone knew him to be a mother’s boy, but he would challenge any of those claims. He was a {Y/N}’s boy, he'd tell them, no shame as students snickered and made their fun of him. He was never afraid of how much he liked you. How much he admired and respected you.

He would turn from the RavenClaw table and look to you after his announcements everytime, you would be eating with Lily Evans and the other girls of her group, but your eyes would be on him. You would give him a soft smile that drove him mad. He would return it with his own, the smile he would save for you. Just you.

When he was only eleven and you were twelve, everything was perfect for him. You focused your attention on studies, your friends, and of course, Barty. That's how it stayed for years.

He would reminisce in his cell, running his dulled nail along the jagged stone walls, carving intents of every minute that passed. Remembering all of the things he regretted most in his life. Losing your trust was where his spiral began. He was a foolish kid.

{. 1974 Barty’s Year 3 .}

“It's getting embarrassing.”

Barty was eating lunch with one of the many friends he had made during his years at Hogwarts, Evan Rosier. He was once again bringing the conversation back to you, as he had been for the past few days.

“You trail after her like a loyal dog. Has she even given you a hint that she may return your feelings?” 

“What feelings?”

Evan and you did not get along. You never had. When he first found himself growing closer to him, you voiced your distaste for Evan the very next day. Barty always trusted your judgment, he obeyed you without much of a fight in most cases. This was not one of those cases.

He figured you to be biased, your brother thought him to be a Death Eater and you despised them. Something he could never understand, you were a pureblood, a Black, you were a powerful witch, and you would never have to worry about falling for a half blood or muggleborn, or Merlin forbid, a muggle. You were smarter than that. He always figured. You wouldn't taint your legacy.

Not like your useless brother, who he could see even now, describing his entanglements with witches and wizards of any kind, to the other Marauders.

As the years went on, you and Barty’s meetings became scarcer and scarcer, they went from Fridays to every second Friday, finally, you now only met every last Friday of the month. Still, Barty clung to you with a desperation he never would give anyone else.

Recently, you had gotten into a fight. One where you expressed your worry for what could possibly happen to him if he got involved with the wrong crowd. Barty, admittedly, didn't respond in kind. He was furious with you. You questioned his company but pushed away from him, you questioned his morals and his standing on the war. He told you there was no war to him, there was no fight.

At the end of the day, he would be standing by you.

The answer seemed to distress you further. It turned into a match of shouts and desperate pleas of compliance. It caused a scene, people watched as you defended your standing on your side of the war, this fight you were having with yourself he assumed. There was no war. This was a power struggle.

Evan’s scoff snapped him out of his thoughts and he looked up from his plate to his eyes. 

“Barty, half the school knows you've been in love with her since first year.” He hissed and Barty frowned. Would he call it love? He didn't think about it long before he had his answer. Love wasn't something he looked for, but he found it constantly. From the love he shared with Pandora, to the love he shared with Regulus, even the love he was nurturing with the brutish Evan.

No love in his body burned hotter then his love for you. 

He never thought about it because he never had to. Why would he? He knew you loved him too. He knew what you two shared was never anything that could be challenged. He was your prodigy. He was your prodigy. He didn't care for much, as long as he was yours. 

Evan snapped his fingers in his face and drew his attention back to him. He gave a slick smirk and wet his lips. “Come on, Barty, she's just a girl. You're wasting talent. Talent that could be used for someone who actually appreciates you.”

“She does appreciate me.” Barty challenged immediately, before Evan smirked and gestured to the Gryffindor table. “Does she?”

Barty turned just in time to see you, he never had to stare at a crowd too long to find you. 

You were sitting with your brother and his friends, side by side with Remus, sitting far too close for comfort. He was whispering something in your ear, making you giggle. Turning to look at him with the truest smile he's ever seen you make. Flashing your beautifully uneven teeth, your cheeks dimpling and eyes seeming to sparkle. Your eyes met Lupin’s and he took in your expression like he could die in that moment. 

Barty had never seen you smile like that before. He had never seen you look that way before. You had never looked at him like that before.

He hadn't even noticed as he began to bend the fork in his hand, fist tightening as he watched as Remus lean in and stole a kiss against your cheek. You gave a bigger laugh at this. Moving in to kiss his lips carefully. 

The wonderful moment you were having was interrupted when a loud snap sounded threw the cafeteria. Your eyes snapped over to the RavenClaw table, as did a lot of your peers. Barty had snapped a fork in half with his thumb alone. Before a professor could scold him, he got up from his seat and stomped out of the grand hall, and your eyes followed them.

You muttered a quick apology to Remus and he nodded in understanding as you scrambled to your feet to follow after him. 

He wished he could take every word he called you in that hall back now. He wished he had been smart enough to know that loving you with you in his life would of been far less torture then loving a girl who hated your guts. 

“You blood trader!”

“This! This is what I meant, Bartemius! My Barty would never-”

“You don't have a clue about me, you insolent heartbreaker! What of us, Black?”

“Us? What Us, Barty?”

That night he realized that no matter how genuine his love was for you, how deeply it ran, those times spent alone meant far more to him then it ever meant to you. You did stuff like that for everyone. 

He wasn't entitled to your love. Running his nail down until it was blunted against the wall. Azkaban could no longer do more harm then it already had.

{. 1974 Barty’s Year 4 .}

An entire school year. You and Barty didn't speak for an entire school year.

He kept his tabs on you, of course, because no matter what you said to him that day, you were still his person. Knowing how ignorant and how dangerously minded you could be, he took it upon himself to look over you. You may have been older, you may have sworn him, at one time, your loyalty and protection. But now, he had power of his own. He would repay you. He would repay and reeducate you, given the chance. With all the training him, Evan, Muliciber, Avery, even Snape had done? By Merlin’s beard he could do anything.

He had the mind to back that up, but he kept his power under wraps. You were always frightened by what you didn't understand, the last thing he wanted was for you to fear him. He wanted everyone to know him as fear, not you.

Never you.

When the school year started Barty noticed the shift instantly. He knew you like the back of his hand, far more than he let on most days, but it didn't take a genius to see that {Y/N} Black sitting with Regulus Black at the Slytherin table was odd. 

He soon learned of what happened between Sirius and his family, a right disgrace. Then to learn Sirius scorned you from his life for choosing to stay with Regulus, that was probably what started Barty’s absolute disdain for your brother. You had gone through training per Regulus. Saying before Sirius left he let it slip about you and Remus, trying to entice you to leave with him. You refused and your mother lost it. Walburga was a stain on this earth for what she had done. Even then…

It was all for the better, as he saw it. You don't need the impressions of Sirius Black, Lily Evans, Mary Macdonald, Remus Lupin, or any others that pour their venom into a perfect witch as yourself. He would make sure it stayed that way, even if it hurt you. However, he couldn't lie.

You always looked your best when you knew your worth. 

It wasn't just your routine that changed, you became cold to your old friends, dropping the Muggle borns and staying weary of the half bloods. You started to associate mainly with more influential Purebloods.

That meant him. 

He knew his father was good for something.

“Crouch? Would you like to accompany me to the library?” Your voice sang out to him, despite your listless monotone and drifting eyes. It was the first sentence you muttered to him in 13 months. Your voice was more reserved, your back straightened and your lips pouted. You didn't look like that 12 year old he knew, you were 16 now. Even in his depravity, he took notice of every lovely advancement you had taken in care of your appearance. Your mother instructed you with glamours and proper wear, even now wearing a black feathered choker and brandished a black quill. A family heirloom, Regulus would tell him.

Now, he hated your mother, there was no question about that. What she had done to Regulus was unforgivable, what she had done to you was cause for retaliation in his eyes. But Merlin, did she put you back on the path of greatness.

“Crouch? {Y/N}, my love, it will always be Barty to you.” He lit up like a child, voice sugary sweet. It was your turn to take notice of his change. He was still the same boy you met in first year. Endlessly obsessive, devoted, and excelling at all the things you liked about him. Unfortunately, also the things you hated. 

But, he was still your Barty in your heart. The boy you loved, the boy you cherished, the boy who charmed your soul in ways you didn't know possible. If you had to pick anyone to fill the hollowed out ache in your chest, you chose dangerously, Barty Crouch Jr would be your reprieve.

He was just older now. He was becoming a man.

Everyone knows what they say, about a boy and a girl, coming into their own together. Barty figured this was your love story, you weren't one to argue any longer.

He didn't care that you only seemed to speak to him out of necessity. When he heard from Regulus that your mother was making you pick your friends based on their social standing, any males to soon be a suitor, he was ecstatic.

He was remarkable. He was seen. He was valuable enough to you to not be a mere pawn but maybe even a queen on your chest set. To be used by you? It was worth every moment of the ache. All of this because his father just so happened to keep his filthy hands to the purest bloodlines.

That was his value to you. His blood, his sweat, his labor, and his mind. They were yours, no questions asked. He clung to your heel with new found determination. He would keep you on the right track, the promised one. The one that would ensure your children had the same opportunities. 

He knew he wanted this the moment he walked in on you and Severus arguing in the courtyard.

“You dare call her a Mudblood, you incessant pompous Half Breed?!” Your voice echoed through the halls. People watched in horror, some in absolute shock, the sweet kind girl they had grown attached to was a right monster now. Barty, however, was loving it. You were a proper pureblood.

“{Y/N}-” Severus spoke carefully, something about his tone was far too familiar for Barty’s liking, him addressing you by first name made his jaw tighten. He didn't have to say a word. You rectified it.

“Do not address me as anything other than Black, you dirty mutt!” You screeched. Severus looked stunned, the usually stoic boy looked broken. Barty watched as your eyes trailed over a shocked and watery eyed Lily Evans, he almost didn't catch you muttering, “You lost that privilege.”

He, of course, came to your rescue, as he always promised. Hand around your back and escorted you away from the fight. As you both walked down the corridor your path was blocked. 

Barty almost laughed, Remus Lupin. He was standing with Sirius Black, both staring threatening daggers at Barty. When you both kept walking, Barty shoved a path between the two boys, you hand a fistful of his cloak so as to not be left behind.

He didn't like how Remus’s eyes softened at the sight of you. He didn't like how Sirius reached for you. He walked faster, putting your sniffling form in front of himself.

After that, he knew he had you. 

You were becoming who you were meant to be.

~~~

He took his mark that summer, standing alongside your brother Regulus Black, Lucius Malfoy, Beatrix Black and Evan Rosier. They were at your cousin’s manor, in the ballroom standing side by side. He was as straight as a board, brimming with pride, smirking to himself and brandishing his left arm.

He could feel your eyes on him, from where you stood, next to Narcissa, your aunt and your mother. Waiting for him. 

Evan was first, standing beside Barty and holding out his wrist. When the wand hovered over his wrist and the Death Eater began to mutter the incantation, Evan let out a blood curdling sound. Pure brutish pain shot through him, leading him to fall back. Quickly held up by two other death eaters behind him.

When the wand brushed Barty’s wrist next, he hardly flinched. Tilting his head back as sweat gathered around his temple and neck. He bit his lip and let himself feel every sharp intrusion the spell took, letting himself succumb to the blissful pain.

When he returned to you, not standing to wait for dismissal like the rest of them, he wrapped his arm around your waist and yanked you in. He stole your lips for his own, making you give a slight gasp. You don't fight it, so he pushed further, letting himself taste your bottom lip and pulling it punishingly between his teeth. Through his high he was able to recognize and memorize the feel of your lips and the taste, in his mind, it was the closest to the gods he'd ever get. What was true heaven, however, was when you took his cheeks in your hands and kissed him back.

“Enough.” He heard your mother hiss from beside you. She shooed Barty away like he was some stray dog. He backed down from where you stood, licking his lips and admiring just how shaken and red you looked. Your mother, the hag, pushed you behind herself and hid you away from his eyes.

When you looked away and covered your mouth, he almost didn't notice how you also licked your lips clean. That drove him mad.

He had come to the conclusion early on, you were a temptress. A vixen. A damned Siren as far as he knew. 

Memories of that night, your first kiss, the moment he could see you falling for him. A proper man, worthy of the worship he planned to give you. Worthy of serving a goddess like you. It kept him up most nights, it was a high even the dementor's couldn't take away, but they did manage to warp his obsession from what he believed to have been holy, to the truth.

He was brought on this earth for you. Without you, he was nothing. He was rotting.

{. 1976 Barty’s Year 6 .}

The next year he took your hand and promised you the world. To his delight, you responded in kind. You began dating his sixth year and it was absolute bliss. 

It didn't last long, that bliss. It became a thrill.

Despite his power and loyalty to the dark lord, your mother favored another's for your hand. Particularly, Avery. His father came to your mother with the proposal, your mother liked his offer of the estate and your own power over the house.

You, however, much to Barty’s delight, were way too far gone. In your now secret meetings, where you would take you strolls along the city street, to the shop or to the boutique. You made a show of it; but you only truly left for Crouch Manor.

Where Mr. and Mrs. Crouch turned their other cheek as you snuck your way to Barty’s chambers. Behind those locked doors your love was dangerous. His whispers and promises of treachery against your family name were met with nothing less than desperate devotion and promises in kind. As your palms glided over his bare chest and his large hands found their way under your skirt.

His favorite memories were all locked away in that room. The room he made you his own, where his hands grew familiar with your skin in ways no one else ever could, where he found an affinity for you breathless, and where he heard you let out sounds no self respecting Black heiress should ever let out. 

He claimed what was his birthright, between your legs. Bruised your lips numb and left marks you had to charm away when you made it back home. Just in time for supper.

With the feeling of him still fresh on your body. The pureblood heir your parents thought so lowly of. The heir they didn't see fit to sit at that very table, was still there. His lips were on the rim of the cup you sipped from, his hands were on the arm rests you relaxed against, and his teeth and claws were buried into their perfect daughter.

{. 1978 .}

By the time you both graduated, you took your place at the table. Having fought to hold off your engagement to Avery, Barty took it into his own hands to get between the two of you. Every time you glance in the boy's direction, he shrivels in on himself.

“Barty?” You whispered between his greedy kisses, in the halls of the Malfoy manor.  The only times his hands could find your hips and his lips could find yours outside of his own room now. He was starting to see less and less of you. The war was in full swing and with his desperation for you was all that was driving him most days. 

Thinking now, he wondered what drove you. Even now, having spent a year in Azkaban, you were still the light he flew to, no matter how much it hurt him. He could have sworn, at one time, it was him.

“Darling.” He whispered low against your lips. You tangled your fingers into his hair, before pulling him down. He rested his chin against the curve of your chest and looked up into your eyes.

You bit your lip, running your thumb along his own reddening ones. “Do you love me, Barty?” You cooed.

“I do.” He affirmed, licking the skin you touched along his Cupid's bow, “I do, more than anything.” His voice was raw and rough, he pulled at your hold, trying desperately to kiss you again.

“Do something for me, Barty.” 

“Anything, Darling. Anything.” He muttered, eyes still on your lips.

“Be within my reach. Always.” You whispered before releasing him. He took your lips once more, pushing you back against the wall like the very prospect of not touching you in some way was physically painful. His hand traveled up from your hand to rub over the mark you took just days earlier.

Every moment like that seemed fleeting. 

The very next year, Regulus Black passed. He had gone MIA and your mother, despite her loyalty to Voldemort, commanded you home. It got worse when they officially announced his death.

You stayed locked in those walls, by order of your mother. He missed you dearly. Barty never wanted to be your hero, some great commander, he couldn't care less now about who else even knew his name anymore. He was older now, and he just wanted to be yours. 

So, it pushed Barty to work even harder. Anything to appease The Dark Lord, get this war over with, so he could return to the only true person worthy of his reverence. 

Without you, his life went by in simple clips of reality. When Voldemort fell, he was imprisoned in this hellhole, and even now, he found himself unable to let anything else consume his mind.

The dripping of water from the rusting metal doors drove him mad. No other sounds but the miserable screams of inmates and slamming of bodies against pavement. It was a torturous and hopeless place, some people preferred punishment by their own hands. There was suddenly a loud clanging of keys that cut his thoughts.

He looked up from the corner of his cell, putting his thumb in his mouth and sucking on the bleeding torn skin. The marks he had made on the cell walls marked his 354th day in this nightmare. His eyes locked with his father and his mother, furrowing his brow as he stood.

His mother two out two veils of a slug colored potion, his father had another potion in his hand.

Barty didn't stay in that cell to see his 355th.

~~~

{. 1994 POV Shift .}

“It's a bit cold, don't you think?”

Remus Lupin's voice cut through the fog of your mind like a knife through butter. He was right, of course. Even as the year grew warmer with the summer months growing closer, the astronomy tower always gave a pleasant and persistent chill. 

You were used to it, by now. Being the Astronomy Professor for almost twelve years. About the same amount of years you managed to avoid coming into contact with Remus himself. 

You had to give him credit, Remus Lupin, he was persistent. Doing everything in his power to get you alone. As if one conversation would melt away years of what you had done, the people you deceived, the lives you took, the lies you told… all in the name of a crazed boy long lost to the history of the wizarding world. For the family who was as faded as the family tree you used to tend to with your brothers, painting names and burning faces. 

As if speaking to you would somehow bridge a gap. A gap in his heart that still ached for you. It was never something he was able to understand, your persistent and endless love for Crouch had come out of nowhere for him. He couldn't look Sirius in the eye for a long time, learning he had outed your budding relationship. 

He took every chance he could, to reach out, to speak to you, it was met with closed doors and a reminder of remaining professional. 

“It is. Heading out, Lupin?” You muttered to him. You couldn't lie and say having him here didn't make you feel, in some ways, nostalgic. To the loving, caring, respectful girl you once knew. One with so much patience and kindness you shared it with all kinds of souls. Souls you've watched drop like flies under the man you swore your life to.

“I am.” Remus muttered but didn't turn to leave. You shifted on your heel to look back at him from the entrance of the tower. He had his hand resting on the railing, his palm thudding against the railing as he tried to gather the courage to continue.

“I heard you gave Snape quite the earful.” He hummed, walking deeper into your classroom. You thinned your lips and shook your head, turning away from him. He gave a weak scoff. 

“Could you at least look at me?” He pushed, his voice wavering. You closed your eyes and gave a deep sigh. Your hands moved to grab the railing.

“What is it, Lupin?” 

“It's not too late.” He whispered and you closed your eyes. His words were exact, aimed to cut deep and retrieve from you the heart he knew was there; it just had grown cold. “You could come back. With me, tonight, we can meet with Padfoot and-”

“And what, Lupin?” You spoke calmly as you turned to face him. He went rigid at your stare. “Live this wonderful life you have weaved out for us? Pretend that everything is okay and the last few years never happened?” You pushed and he closed his eyes. 

Anger bubbled in his throat with something familiar, jealousy and bitter melancholy. If he could hear you any clearer you would be cotton in his ears. Your words were empty because he knew you could. Put Hogwarts behind you and come back to him, come with him and Sirius like you should have done back when you wore uniform and not cloaks like proper professors. Nothing was proper about you two aching hearts anyway. 

Yet history repeated itself.

It always would.

“You know he's gone.” Remus started slowly and your breath caught in your throat. You felt your eyes grow glossy with grief and you placed your left hand over your heart. 

“I never thought I would be someone's second choice. To Bartemius Crouch Jr.” He continued. “I see I never measured up, did I?” 

“... I am sorry, Remus.” You whispered, your voice, for the first time in years, was vulnerable. It was careful.

Because of course you loved Remus. You loved him dearly, but no man would own you like Barty had. You were terrified to let yourself be loved with anything less than what he had shown you. Steadfast and faithful love. No one could challenge the status of Barty in your life.

Even in death his ghost reminds you of your place. Next to him. 

Once this was over, once Dumbledore had seen and used his worth in you, when you were no longer under his wing like a servant, you would go back to 12 Grimmauld Place. You would retire. And you would wait for Barty to take you back home. Let it be a year, let it be ten, you would return to him as promised.

“... What have you become?” He whispered to you, and your eyes finally raised to meet him. You caught your tears and quickly cleaned your face. Shaking your head you put back on your practiced and perfect pout.

“.. A Black.”

Your exchange ended there. 

Remus returned to your brother, you presumed. You forged ignorance when you were questioned by the Ministry of your brother’s whereabouts. It didn't take much for them to let you be, especially with Mr. Crouch Senior’s particular protectiveness of you. Probably a gift from Mrs. Crouch, oh, how you missed her.

When Barty was taken and your mother was far too weak to control you, you visited the Crouchs’ daily. You helped Winky with taking care of his parents, particularly his sick and fragile mother. You grew a weak repore with his father, though you despised him. 

As a proper pureblood you just silently reaped the benefits of what the world had gifted you.

Including your wealth. With the house of Black fallen you were left to be the soul heir. Though, the moment you heard of Sirius Black’s escape, you reopened your joint account. Soon, you heard someone was able to access it. It was true; your brother was alive and well.

That was the only olive branch you extended to him. 

Once the school year was officially over you returned home. To your modest house down in an old town just a broom ride away from Hogwarts. Feldcroft.

You returned home, it was uneventful. Until you opened your door. 

You were greeted by Winky, the Crouch’s house elf. That wouldn't be unusual, Barty had preached to her about how you were both intended. How she should attend to you, how she attended to him. So she would appear at your house from time to time, with gifts and food she had prepared for Crouch Senior that she made just too much of.

“Winky?” You called out to the figure in your hall. The sheepish girl turned to face you with a careful smile.

“Madam Black has returned! How happy Winky is to see you, mistress.” She declared and hurried up to you. Her path was cut short as Creature stepped in front of her, snapping away your bags. He seemed in a foul mood. Fowler then usual.

“Your mother would not approve of your company, Ms. Blaaaack.” He warned and you furrowed your brow. “Nor would she approve of this home-”

“Kreature.” You demanded and he huffed. Winky was always coming in and out, Creature never voiced displeasure with her company and your mother, well, she could care less. “What company?”

“The noisy Crouch, Ma'am.”

Your heart dropped. He apparated away, assumingly to unpack your bags. Your eyes widened as Winky appeared in front of your full view. Showing off the black quill you had most definitely left at home. Your mothers old quill. You took it carefully from the house elf.

“Winky..” You spoke carefully and slowly. Holding up the quill between your fingers. “Who gave this to you?”

“I think you know, Darling.” 

Before Winky could answer, a voice lost to time spoke first. You knew it before you even turned around. 

Still, you jerked your entire body to face him. Your eyes locked, full of longing and hope.

 And there he was. Your Barty.

He was holding a newspaper, licking his bottom lip but his eyes were on you. His eyes were just how you always remembered them. So full of danger and appreciation for your simple presence. He stepped towards you and you took a step back. He tsked at that, reaching out to grab your waist. “Darling..” He whispered.

You were still in shock. Staring up at his brown eyes and waiting. For anything. “Barty?” You whispered.

When he kissed you, alarm bells went off in your head. You didn't listen to any of them, grabbing him just as greedily as he held you. Both of your eyes closed and you held each other like you might perspire. 

He was home.

He truly was.

[leighsartworks216]

Understanding

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter - Next Chapter

I DIDN'T FORGET TO POST THIS ON THURSDAY!!! I found updating on Thursdays actually a horrible idea considering it's one of my busiest days of the week, so I'm shifting to post on Saturdays now. Sorry for anyone who was looking forward to an update then and didn't see one <333

Warnings: none that I know of, but lmk if I missed something

Word Count: 1,910

Main Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You’re scared to leave your room the next day. Not for fear of being hurt… or worse, surprisingly enough. You spent all night (day? It’s hard to keep track of time here) organizing your thoughts and morals. You couldn’t rest until you figured them out, and you were awake still long after, figuring out what to say to him.

With a deep breath and a quick run-through of the script you put together, you follow the rocky walls through the lair. You feel like a child again, trying to sneak out of the temple. As though any moment you’ll be caught and forced to recite hymns to atone for your mischief.

Your search for the fiend is made easy when you hear the quiet clink of metal hitting each other. It leads you to the treasure room, far more echoey than any other room you’ve been to thus far and with air that doesn’t feel as condensed.

Something is tossed into a pile of coins. You can hear them sliding down the side, scraping over one another before coming to rest on the floor. And again.

“Are you… organizing?”

The coins still and you’re left in the silence. You can just barely hear his breathing, the swish of air around the tail you’ve seen in your visions.

“You…” You inhale, trying to find the words you rehearsed to yourself over and over again, lost somewhere in the aether, never to return. “I don’t think you’re… as much of a monster as you make yourself out to be.”

He chuckles humorlessly. You startle at the sound. “No? How come, pet? Is it not in my nature to desecrate the world and its innocents? Is it not destiny that makes me maim?” Something is lifted from one pile and tossed into another with a loud clatter.

You clear your throat. Destiny is a complicated topic, one that has no tried and true answer. Thinking such is blasphemous in itself. You banish the thought quickly before you call down Astra’s ire upon you.

“You said they were trying to kill you. If that is the truth, then you are the innocent here. Everyone will do anything in their power to save their own life, even if that means taking another.” You exhale unevenly. “As far as I’m concerned, their lives were forfeit as soon as they encroached on your…” You gesture vaguely around. “Home.”

“Does your god share your opinion?”

A weak laugh jostles out of you. “Probably not,” you admit. You swallow nervously. “I’m sure He’ll let me know if He doesn’t. But He doesn’t speak for me, and I can only speak so much of His will into existence. Whether He likes it or not, I have beliefs outside of Him, and I believe that you’re not as unredeemable and unforgivable as the stories say… If you were, I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Your heart thuds uncomfortably in your chest as you wait for any sort of response from him. Maybe you said something wrong, somewhere, somehow, and made things worse. Maybe calling him innocent was an insult, a miscommunication between dragons and mortals, blindly overstepped. But you wait. You listen.

Slowly, you hear him moving again. “Come here.”

For a moment, you think he’s calling you over so he can kill you, strip your bones and discard you with the rest. You force that assumption down, despite how tempting it sounds to get the hell out of there. You wouldn’t get very far anyway.

Carefully, you step further into the room. You have to abandon the reassurance of the doorway in favor of wide open space. Sliding your feet across the floor, you’re careful not to step on anything, with your arms outstretched to feel for anything solid. Some ways from the door, something hard and strong wraps around your waist and drags you to the side. You jump, yelping uncertaintly as you’re nudged to sit down on something plush and soft. It’s unlike anything else you’ve felt around the tunnels.

“I am organizing,” he confirms, as though your outpouring of sympathy never happened. “You can sit here while I do.”

You hesitantly, curiously, feel the plush cushion. It’s almost velvety beneath your fingers, if not a bit rough. “How long has this been here?”

It’s rhetorical, but you hear him chuckle. “Long before you got here, oracle.”

You try not to show your surprise at the new nickname for you. Anything aside from “pet” is greatly welcomed. It does more to ease your nerves than anything else he could have chosen to say.

“Speaking of which, any new insights on your prophecy?”

Gods, you’d nearly forgotten all about it. “Not especially,” you say, “though you being a fiend does answer some of my questions.”

More clinking metal. Rather than being thrown, it sounds like it was carefully placed on the floor. “How so?”

“Your appearance, primarily. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before.”

“‘Seen’? Did you forget you’re blind, or have you lost your wits in the short time you’ve been here?”

You laugh. Ah, right, he’s never met a Chosen before. You find a back to the furniture you sit on. It’s wooden and intricate. You adjust to lean up against it, legs stretched out along the rest of the cushion. It feels heavenly after days of sleeping on hard rock. “No, I’m as sane as I can be. It’s how I receive the prophecies from Astra; he plays the events in my mind and I can see them actually played out before me as I sleep.”

He hmphs. Something heavy shifts across the floor. “That’s a bit cruel.”

“How do you mean?”

“How long have you been blind?”

“Um, my whole life. I was born this way.”

“And yet he dangles the gift of sight before you every time you need to relay the future. You’d think a god like him could find a better way to do so.”

You pick at the cloth on your hands. “I… I have no comment.”

“Do you miss it when you wake up? Being able to see?”

Do you? You’ve become so intimately accustomed to it, you don’t think about it anymore. Being allowed to see prophecies in such a unique way has become so detached from your blindness; you can’t seem to reconcile them together anymore. The waking world and the world of dreams are two separate entities, incomparable.

“I guess I just don’t think about it once I’ve woken up,” you choose to say.

“Do you wish you could see?”

“No.” There’s no hesitation, no doubt. You feel his eyes on you as you smile. “For all the hardships and struggles, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Do you wish you weren’t a dragon?”

He scoffs, amused, but a sour note lingers. He doesn’t answer. You suspect he may just wish such a thing.

You undo the messy knot in the cloth around your left hand and begin to unwrap it. Your hands don’t hurt anymore, so perhaps they’ve healed? Either way, these things probably need to be changed out. You clear your throat. “I don’t know much about dragons. Nothing that I’d consider trustworthy information, anyway.”

“What have you heard?”

“The usual: fiends are terrifying beasts that feed on human flesh and steal innocent girls for their own pleasure. They have huge lairs full of gold and priceless treasures.” You set the first wrap aside and begin working on the second. “The lair and hoard are true, I would assume, since…” You gesture around.

“Yes, those are true,” he laughs. You hear his footsteps getting closer. “I can’t say anything for my appearance, but we don’t eat human flesh. I’m sure some of us have stolen girls in the past. As for myself, you’re the first mortal I’ve brought back here.”

“What do you eat?” You can’t recall hearing him eat anything since you arrived. Even from afar, you could usually pinpoint the distinct chewing sounds, as unpleasant as they are. And for how many skeletons you stumbled upon yesterday…

He doesn’t respond right away. His steps stop in front of you, halting your wrapping as you wait for what will happen next. You nearly startle when his voice returns beside your ear, hot breath fanning against your skin and drawing goosebumps along your arms against your will. “Human souls,” he says. You think he’s smirking. He sounds far too amused. “The bones you found. They’re from hunters who come to kill me. Thieves who try to claim my treasures. I ate their souls.”

You swallow. “Will you eat mine?”

He chuckles as he backs away, speaking to you face to face. “Would you like me to?”

“No,” you answer sharply.

“Then I won’t.”

“I assume this is a very rare special treatment, not extended to others.”

“As curious as I am to know what an oracle’s soul tastes like,” he teases with a mournful sigh. “Let me see your hands.”

You finish unwrapping your right hand. The cloth drops into a pile with the other, and you hold both your hands in front of you, palms up. Something hard and sharp holds the back of your hands, startling you. They leave for a second, before holding them again.

“Are those… your hands?”

He hums an affirmative. He tilts your hands from side to side, examining the old injuries you sustained. “They’ve healed well,” he says, sounding impressed. “I guess I was wrong to underestimate you.”

You huff a laugh. “I told you! The people in the city are rough; even I picked up some things here and there for my own sake. I probably wouldn’t have been able to run away if I hadn’t been just a little resourceful.”

“You’re getting cocky now, oracle. Mind your head doesn’t get too big and fall from your shoulders.” He lets go of your hands. Something flicks your forehead. You grab it before he can fully pull away.

It’s sharp and tough, with ridges and plating coming together to form gauntlet-like fingers and a rough palm. He doesn’t take his hand back. You can feel his eyes watching you, staring you down like a bird of prey, but your curiosity fends off the embarrassment.

When you find his wrist, you think maybe you’ll find soft skin. Instead, it’s just more hard plating, as high up as you dare to feel. It’s cold, texture akin to a beetle’s shell. You hold the back of his hand in your palm, as he’d just done to you, and trace the other overtop. A small heart shape catches your attention. You follow its contour a few times, before lightly feeling up the lengths of his fingers. The tips are pointed, enough that if you dared press any harder, they’d surely break through your skin and draw blood.

“Why did you run away?” he asks, voice reduced to a low rumble.

You release his hand. “Astra gave me a prophecy that they didn’t like,” you explain matter-of-factly. Though, maybe he can see the sorrow that crosses your face. “It’s not the first time, but this one predicted the coming of doomsday. It topped the pile of bad prophecies, tipped the scale too far, and they decided I was the one wishing doom on their families. I heard them talking wherever I went, plotting to kill me at dawn’s first light, as a sacrifice to appease Astra. So, I ran.”

“Just the messenger, right?”

“Precisely.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @m0onfl0x @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @leiakitty

[rafes-slut]

The cross

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x You (Enemies-to-Allies-to-Betrayal)

Summary:

You and Rafe Cameron were never supposed to be on the same side, but greed makes desperate allies. With the golden cross finally in your possession, you think you've won—until everything goes downhill. When the Pogues storm the ship, Rafe’s paranoia takes over. Convinced you betrayed him, he does the unthinkable.

One shove. Cold water. Open ocean.

Warnings: Betrayal, attempted drowning, violence, language, paranoia, enemies-to-allies tension, themes of survival, morally gray characters.

---

You and Rafe Cameron have never been on the same side before. In fact, you’re practically enemies—both stubborn, reckless, and willing to do whatever it takes to get what you want. But when it comes to the golden cross, you realize you have no choice but to work together.

The partnership is anything but smooth. You have the inside knowledge—whispers of a shipment, hidden clues that no one else has caught onto. Rafe, on the other hand, has the connections, the brute force, and the reckless confidence to get you past security. It’s a temporary alliance, one that neither of you trusts.

Every interaction is a battle. Tense car rides, sharp words, and the constant threat of betrayal hanging in the air. Rafe doesn’t trust you, and you don’t trust him. You both know that when the time comes, only one of you can walk away with everything.

But the deeper you go, the more complicated it gets. Near-death experiences force you to rely on each other. Close encounters with Ward, the Pogues, and even Carla Limbrey keep pushing you together. The constant proximity turns your partnership into something more—something dangerously intoxicating. Late nights spent strategizing turn into lingering stares. Heated arguments turn into something else entirely, something neither of you are ready to name.

---

The golden cross is finally yours. After months of planning, chasing, and risking your lives, you and Rafe finally have it secured. The two of you haul it onto the ship, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as the weight of your victory settles in.

But the celebration doesn’t last. The sound of footsteps—ones that don’t belong to either of you—echoes from the deck above. Before you can react, a gun cocks, and everything spirals out of control.

The Pogues.

They came back for what was theirs, and somehow, they found you. A full-on battle erupts on the ship, chaos spilling across the deck. Fists fly, gunshots crack through the night air, and the ship rocks violently against the waves. You’re dodging attacks, trying to figure out how the hell they knew where to find you, when suddenly—

Rafe turns on you.

There’s a wild, unhinged look in his eyes, one you’ve seen before but never directed at you like this. He grabs your arm, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

"You snitched," he snarls.

You barely have time to react. "Are you insane? I didn’t—"

But he doesn’t listen. He never does when he’s like this. His paranoia, his obsession, the way he never really trusted you—it all snaps into place as he shoves you backward. Your foot catches on the edge of the ship, and before you can steady yourself, Rafe shoves you again—

And you’re falling.

The cold ocean swallows you whole, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. The salt burns your eyes as you fight to resurface, gasping for breath. Above you, chaos rages on, but Rafe doesn’t look down. He doesn’t hesitate.

He just turned on you.

As the ship grows smaller in the distance, the weight of betrayal sinks in harder than the freezing water around you.

The moment Rafe shoves you, it happens too fast to stop. The cold ocean swallows you whole, knocking the breath from your lungs as you sink beneath the surface. For a terrifying second, everything is black—just endless water, freezing and suffocating, pressing in on all sides. Your arms flail as you fight to break through, lungs burning, heart pounding like a drum in your ears.

When you finally surface, gasping for air, the ship looms above you, rocking violently against the choppy waves. The stormy sea churns around you, sending icy tendrils of panic through your veins. You kick your legs, trying to stay afloat, but the current is strong, the exhaustion creeping in fast.

And then you see him.

Rafe is still standing at the edge of the ship, watching. His grip is white-knuckled on the railing, his chest heaving, his jaw clenched so tight it looks like it might break.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t help you.

He just stands there, eyes locked on yours, breathing hard like he’s trying to convince himself that this is what had to happen. That you betrayed him. That you deserved it.

The waves crash into you again, pulling you under for half a second before you break through, coughing, struggling to keep your head above the water. "Rafe!" You choke on saltwater, reaching toward the ship instinctively, but he still doesn’t move.

The betrayal sinks in deeper than the cold.

"You think I told them?" Your voice is hoarse, shaking, but filled with something else now—rage. "Are you that fucking paranoid?"

His lips part like he wants to say something. Maybe even like he regrets it. But before he can, another gunshot rings out on the deck behind him, and he flinches, whipping his head toward the chaos still unfolding on the ship.

Your limbs are going numb. The current keeps dragging you further, the ship drifting just enough that your fingers grasp at nothing but air. Rafe turns back to you, conflict flashing across his face—like he’s debating whether to pull you up or let the ocean take you.

You hold his gaze, chest rising and falling, waiting for him to make a move.

And then—

The ship lurches.

The cross shifts.

And just like that, the decision is made.

Rafe steps back.

And you’re left to the sea.

[diejager]

a Miguel x f!reader "who did this to you?" Angst fic?

Bittersweet Devotion

Pairing : Miguel O’Hara x fem!reader

Cw: angst, neglect, canon death, dead wife, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 3.5k

Miguel’s been distant these days, the world around him coming to a stop. His temper shortened and his patience dropped lower than it was before, but his attentiveness to his work sharpened. He divulged more of his time to the cause, to defend the multiverse from every anomaly that kept popping up in wildly different universes, at the cost of his personal life. Ever since the *Miles issue* had been dealt with (Spots was stopped from ending Captain Morales’ life prematurely, the canon was kept safe and intact, but his parents knew of his identity and his duty to New York and the multiverse.), Miguel shut himself inside the main office, closed off from the wandering Spider-people he brought over to help him protect their livelihood. 

Atop his platform, he worked tirelessly, swiping screen to screen in search of any escaping anomalies. He depended on Lyla to help him search and the rest of the community to capture and contain these anomalies before they could be sent back to their appropriate universe, closing the rifts they used to escape. The brooding Spider-Man locked himself in, imposing shoulder peering from the edge of his high-floating platform while he stayed there most nights; days even, he hadn’t returned to your shared apartment in the building. He ate when you, Jess or Peter B. brought food to him, he drank and cleaned only when you urged him to do so. 

Staying in his den meant that he rarely slept, the dark bags under his beautiful eyes growing as the days passed. Anomalies appeared left and right, Spiders were dispersed to catch them, sometimes in solo missions, and other times in teams if Miguel deemed it necessary for the anomaly (Green Goblins, Vultures and Sandman were some that were harder to deal with for their volatile attacks.). If you weren’t sent away on a retrieval mission, you’d be working around his office, keeping it clean and usable while he moved around, growling and throwing things as he went.

That’s where things became complicated, Miguel hated meddling and you were often in his space. While he was soft and caring in your shared room (the one he hadn’t been in for weeks now), he was domineering and imposing around the others. His shorter temper meant he often hissed and growled at you, brown eyes glimmering red as he sneered your way. You hadn’t made much of it, contributing his issues to the stress and anxiety he felt while shouldering all this madness. His glares and growls meant little, he was under pressure, but his words, his rants in your face hurt.

His words burned you to your core, the degrading things he screamed at you when you did something that might’ve ticked him off or the insults he’d throw your way when you did something he deemed unsatisfactory. They stung, but you ignored the pain that tore into your heart, the tears that threatened to fall and the anger you felt at his shrugs. You simply missed him. 

Didn’t you deserve some affection? To feel the tender caresses of Miguel’s hands on your skin, the loving promises of his dreams and wishes, and the adoring stares he sent your way. Were you selfish for wanting that? For wanting to have your lover back in your arms. Or were you feeling neglected from the time you spent alone in your bed, the faded scent of his musk, the coldness of your apartment and the uneaten and forgotten plates on the dining table? Were you at fault for feeling forgotten? To sacrifice one for the good of thousands. To sacrifice your love for the safety of all universes. Did one outweigh the other?

“Hijo de puta! Why can’t you do anything right?!” He’d scowl at you, talons digging into the metal of his desk. The ear-splitting sound echoed as he dragged his talons to the edge of the table, red eyes brimming with wrath. He seemed on a warpath, ripping into anything he could get his talons in and throwing the things he could lift off the platform. (Motherfucker-)

You skipped around the objects he threw in his fit, ducking under a chair he gripped and swung randomly, over the desk he kicked, and around the cabinet, he swiped at. Every object he used to vent his emotions were light, in comparison to your given strength. He’d complain afterwards about his things being broken and needing fixing, something you helped him with unless they were too technologically advanced for your time. You webbed all the things you could, aiming your wrist and quickly sticking your end to the floating platform when it stuck to the victims of Miguel’s power. 

You danced around him, catching everything without getting too close to Miguel. He acted without thinking at times in these fury-filled moments, eyes tinging red and reverting to his more animalistic side. He’d warned you before about staying clear of him, to wait until he calmed himself down and realized the devastation of his office. Then he’d apologize and kiss you in hopes you’d forgive him (you always did, you knew his biology made him different - more violent - than you and the Spiders.). You’d fix the platform up, remake the broken parts or simply forget about it, like the many cabinets he ended up buying instead of patching them up.

Now especially, his tantrums began more often and lasted longer, a common occurrence when it was rare months ago. You couldn’t fault him, you didn’t want to, even if your heart throbbed painfully at his words, shoulders curving under the immensity of his tone and actions. You loved him, so you’d bare him in his best as in his worst.

“Detente- Simplemente detente!” In his fits of rage, Miguel reverted to his vulgarity, spitting Spanish words at anyone he faced. His voice was low and gravely, body convulsing as he swung at the fizzling, orange screens, dissipating under his aggressive gesture. (Stop- Just stop!)

When his fuse popped, he’d throw words left and right in Spanish, the enchanting slur of his Mexican accent turning hellish, slamming loudly like the Hephaestus’ hammer. Along his hit came the blow, the effects following them. Whether they were positive or negative, he pushed on, frenziedly hammering the weight of his words into whoever was the nearest to him. Which, coincidentally, happened to be you at the moment when you climbed onto his platform to relay the summarised report of last week’s missions from every Spider.

You let him ramble in silence, watching him twist on the spot and walk circles before his desk, turning and gesturing arbitrarily at something that wasn’t there. He’s expressive with his love, his spite, his care, his needs and his fury. He’d make big motions with his hands, voice dipping low and sometimes rising high with the pitch of his impatience. He growls when he’s displeased. He roars when he’s furious. He spits when he’s agitated. He smirks when he’s pleased. If not his voice or his lips, his eyes shine with emotion, showing those who knew how to read him how he felt.

That’s why you ignored the sharp nabs at your person, the low jabs at your work and how you dealt with the other Spiders as his right hand, or at your simple performance of his care. He didn’t want your care when he was busy, he didn’t want your soft and soothing words when he was tracking down another anomaly with vehement hate, and he didn’t want your meddling when he was focused on important matters of the multiverse. 

He was stressed, and pressure mounted over self-expectations made him lose himself. Down went his tolerance for failure and mistakes. Down went his awareness of his needs. Down went his patience with people and Lyla. Every man and woman would buck under intense pressure, some would break and stop working, and others would submit to the fate of their failures, but Miguel persevered, he pushed and pushed, pulling at the strings he could grasp, even the shortest ones. 

“Can you just- Coño- can you just shut up for a second?!” Miguel bucked, slamming his fist into the desk. It’d probably leave a dent for you or him to fix, a hole in the shape of his fist. 

You rushed to him, hand wrapping around his upper arm, supporting his hunched body as you webbed a chair closer to him, pulling on the synthetic fibre until it was behind Miguel. You whispered encouraging words into his ear, easing him into sitting on the rolling furniture. His legs shook, falling limp when he finally sat down, back slumped over and head low. You ran your fingers through his hairline, pulling up his wild mane. His eyes were closed, bags the deepest you’d seen, and his cheeks were sunken, near sickly. 

A chill wracked your body at his deteriorating appearance, his exhaustion had finally caught onto him. You wanted to fuss over him, to berate him for letting it get this far, but his exhausted figure made you frown and rethink your words. You couldn’t let this go on, you’d have to sit him down and talk to him after you took care of him. You lowered the platform, watching Miguel from the corner of your eye until you reached the lowest it could go. 

“Miguel,” you hushed, pressing your lips to his cheek, soft and gentle for his fatigue. “We need to get you to our room, you can’t work anymore.”

He grumbled, feet weakly moving to ease the weight on your shoulders, you wanted to remind him that you were strong and that you could easily carry him back if you wanted, but he liked to keep his pride as the strongest, the boss that people could depend on. You nodded at those who gave you worried glances, shaking their helping hands for carrying him (you knew Miguel wouldn’t have liked others to touch him so casually.) and asked some to run errands for you while you two were busy. Lyla would take over for now, until you took care of Miguel.

“Let me help you, Miggy. Let me take care of you.”

He slept better than night, the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks - months - and was grounded to a week of rest and recuperation. You helped him shower, washing his back and hair. You cooked his favourite dishes, following the Mexican cooking books you had laying around. You gave him daily massages for the aches over his shoulders and back, massing the tenseness off his arms and legs. At night, you’d force him to bed, blocking his access to his office and kissing him goodnight. The sun rose with you, you rode Hélio’s chariot, turning his nights into mornings as you pulled Selena’s moon into the sky.

While he rested, you worked tirelessly to fill in Miguel’s seat, scouring the multiverse for anomalies and sending Spiders to deal with them. You had Lyla run diagnostics and simulations about the chance for future appearances, playing the game of prediction and bettering the percentage after each successful prediction. Peter B. and Jess could help you around the clock, they shared the job you had as Miguel’s right-hand and worked fantastically together when put in charge of it. They were still sent on missions if you and Lyla determined it was too difficult to face alone, they were skilled and had experience, and they would mentor those who needed help. If the case came forward, you would step away from the office and jump through the multiverse, aiding your fellow Spiders to capture anomalies while Lyla took care of the office. 

Miguel came back healthier, stronger and more energetic. He thanked you in the forms of kisses and hugs, gratified words and gestures that made your heart warm, flutter like wings. It nearly made you forget all the heartache he burdened you with within the past months. Nearly. 

Something had ticked Miguel off, his ragged breath simmering in the air, a steady stream of fury. It burned like the lowest pits of hell, ruled by the cold tone of its god, seated at the top-most throne of the Underworld. Powerful and iron-handed, Hades led with strong principles and meticulous habits, much like Miguel did. His fury and anger were dealt by Cerberus, the three-headed dog of hell, as ferocious and dangerous as Miguel’s agitated state was. 

His shoulders shook, waves of unadulterated rage filtered off his back, rippling his sculpted back as metal creaked under his hands. His talons sunk into the metal, drawing lines in his anger-filled moment. He spun to face you with a roar, arms flailing until he faced you. He heaved heavily, shoulders and chest moving as his blood rushed with emotions, eyes dilated and turned deep red. He stalked towards you in all his mad glory, like the form of the Cyclops casting its dooming shadow on Odysseus’ men. Except, unlike his men, who were eaten in a blink, embraced by death in such a violent but swift way, you’d be ripped apart by it, pieces of your being torn apart for a slow and painful descent.   

He moved in big, lumbering steps, looming over you, shoulders broad and demanding. He sneered at you, in ways that would kill others but wound you deeply, to tear your heart out and throw it away like old, wilted flowers. The air seemed stuffy, hot and confining, his breath even hotter, burning you when he stopped inches from you. You gaped at him, eyes wide and fingers trembling, something crossed your mind, a flash of emotion that you never thought possible to connect to Miguel: fear. 

“Why can’t you be like-!” He started, mind dead set on breaking you down to your smallest, his force slamming into your softer one. Then he stopped, body seizing as if he was shot, but his round eyes told you he almost let himself slip, to let the name slip from his tongue in a haze. You knew who he was talking about, the memories that he related to her, that he was simply mad, but it didn’t ease the pain that ripped through your heart.

“Like who, Miguel!?” You cried back, hands clenching and rigid on your side. Your body trembling with disgust, shock and heartbreak. You couldn’t believe he would bring her up, to compare you to her and voice it out. It hurt; it drove the nail deeper into your coffin, adding another thing over the mountain of doubt and pain.

He just stared, he couldn’t finish his sentence, a starch contrast to his attitude seconds ago. It pained you that he couldn’t even say the words, to apologize to you about what he said. He knew how to run, how to ignore, and how to push things back. He did that well, and now he couldn’t face what he said to you was pathetic. 

“Like who, huh?! Like her!? Like Dana?!” Your vision blurred, and your breath hitched as your body crashed down with agony, sadness and betrayal. You shook this time while he looked on with desperation, body unable to make a sound or motion. 

“I- no- mi cielo, no- I didn’t mean to, I swear, ” he reached out, hand (his talons had received back into his pads) extending to touch you, to hold you in an apologetic embrace, but you stepped back, unable to contain your sobs. “Mi vida, please. Perdón, no fue mi intención.” (I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.)

You backed away from him, his warmth, his adoration, his love. His apology sounded guilty, dripping with regret and sorrow. He winced, watching you step away from him, regret gripping his heart as he moved to follow you. Every step you took backward, he took one forward, copying you, trying to approach you as if you were a wounded and unpredictable animal, to appease and soothe you. 

You shook your head, tearing your eyes away from his teary ones. You fiddled with your watch, opening a portal to your world and shook off your watch. You jumped back before he could catch you, hand extended to you in a desperate attempt to stop you. He wanted to bring you back into his arms, to kiss the tears away and beg for forgiveness until you let him back in, but to leave him, to throw away the watch that connected you to him. It broke him. 

He wouldn’t be able to see you unless you wanted to be seen, the tracker in your watch left blinking before his feet, discarded as you had with him; after he pushed you away, tore you down with his words spurred by the moment’s rush of negativity and pressure. It wasn’t an excuse, he knew that, but it didn’t ease. He sank to the floor, raking it with his talons as he cried out, a pained sob breaking out of his chest as he cradled his head, cursing himself for not being careful, for not heeding your winces and frowns, and not taking your heart into consideration. 

You fell when you landed in your universe, knocking a few boxes as you crashed onto your side. Your body jerked, cold droplets pouring down on your broken figure as you sat back up on the pavement. You hissed, the downcast atmosphere making your body heave a heartbroken sob, clutching your chest - where your heart would’ve been if Miguel hadn’t shattered it - and falling into yourself. You made yourself smaller, hiding your tear-stained face between your knees as you let the rain shower over you, soaking you down to your socks. 

A relationship built on pain, need and desperation was bound to fall. The carelessness of his ways cracked the edge of your relationship, slowly breaking it down into a shell of what it was. You bled for his cause as you bled for your loss. Like Apollo - a caregiver, a watcher of the fates of the people he oversaw, all the good and evil he could do just by saying the word - Miguel loved and felt, he gave and took, but lost it all in the end. His heart was broken and his soul lost over and over, the people he loved and cared for lost to time and fate. Like the Greek god, he loved what he could not have, loved what he could not hold, loved what he could not keep. 

As would Daphne’s story, she loved as much as you did, she cared as much as you did, and she hated as much as you did. In love was the god, as Miguel was with you, heart-stopping in every aspect. He stood like a god over them all, tall, broad and caring. But like any Greek love story, yours was as tragic, the hymn of your love left to fester with hate and anger, with regret and untold pain. Run, you did as Daphne had, crossing where you hoped he couldn’t reach you; where you’d be left hidden from the heartbreaking sorrow.

You didn’t know how long you sat in the rain, perhaps seconds, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, but every moment blurred into one. The once vibrant colours of New York dulled to a boring monochrome, the world was swallowed in tones of black and white. Your limbs felt numb, you could hardly feel the cold, only the drops of rain and the heaviness of your heart in your chest. You could sit here a while longer, to drown in the sensation of the world falling around you-

Then it stopped raining. That wasn’t right, you could see the water crashing onto the ground by your feet, inches from you. Your side felt warm, a calm, soothing warmth that made your body quake from the cool air. You looked to the side and saw feet, big ones. You followed their body, tracing the lines of their soaking pants, to a warm jacket, broad shoulders and to a familiar face. 

“Oye, who did this to you?” His voice dripped with worry, a calmness that contradicted his frowning eyes. It was a familiar voice. It was a familiar face. It was Miguel’s face. Your lips quivered, staring at the face of your lover - ex-lover now that you thought about it - with newly shed tears. His eyes widened, even more worried than before as he crouched down to your height, hand running down your back soothingly. “Hey, hey, calm down. It’s all right.”

You wished you could believe his words, believe the softness in his tone and the beat of your torturous heart that missed the Miguel you knew. This one - your universe’s Miguel O’Hara (you didn’t even know you had one in your New York, it felt surreal to your depressed mind.) - was a stranger wearing the face of the person you loved. His face was a carbon copy of your Miguel’s, but softer on the edges, calmer and more… human than Spider-man 2099. His voice was gentler, caring more warmth for a stranger in need than yours has, like a whisper from an angel lulling you into a peaceful rest. 

“Vamos, let’s get you out of the rain first.”

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