#a typical Valentine's day for adventurers | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shelovesaesthetics · 7 months

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𝐻𝐸𝐴𝐷𝐶𝐴𝑁𝑂𝑁 ₁

𝑣𝑎𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑘𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑢 𝑟𝑒𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠:

ted logan —

type of guy:

sweet lovey-dovey dork, this himbo will be all over the place

as soon as bill mentions valentines day, all the hairs on his body just stand

the thought of him being so lovey cringes him out but he's just can't remove the obsession with you.

he's so tooth-rottenly cute, when you're around him, he just don't know what to do with himself. you approaching him is like him seeing an alien. either runs away or just freezes and breaks a sweat when you talk to him.

you’re his brainrot and ted's just sadistically a victim to it, completely wrapped around your fingers

musters up the courage and makes it his objective to make the most excellent v-day ever

creating planning boards in his room, preparation talks with Bill, lowkey stalking you at school

saves up every penny in his piggy bank, not wasting a single dollar

reads up on things on what girls would like

love language is quality time and words of affirmation

valentines plans:

excellent adventure ted— you first spend the day on an afternoon at an arcade; you and ted wearing casual formal outfits (ted in his tuxedo and converses, you in a dress and sneakers), playing on all of the arcade machines, giggling, screaming and laughing and goofing around.

he then takes you to his favourite spot by the Circle K, chilling down on the pavement. playing some UNO/tells you his wild adventure stories/jamming out to punk & pop rock on his speaker, sitting and eating slushies and a hot dog

after the arcade, he takes you to a diner, ordering a classic American meal (two burgers, fries, onion rings, two milkshakes with the extra cream & a cherry-on-top)

finishes the date with a trip back to Bill's, awaiting a heartwarming surprise (aka the anticipated secret)

he cutely takes your hand and sits you down on a chair, closing your eyes whilst you wait. 5 minutes later, you take them off at his command, waterworks immediately start to run as you look at the sight infront of you.

ted, with his guitar, announces his special song for you.

hands begin to strum on the guitar, puppy loving eyes gazing into yours, heartfully. ted serenades you with a sweet melody, accompanied by his surprisingly sweet voice

in the garage that's decorated in cutesy heart decor; red and pink balloons and banners all over the place, you feel as if you're in a safe haven, enchanted away here by your adorable, innocent boyfriend

mid performance, ted brings you up to the stage, twirling you around and then dancing with you. his big BFG self towers over you, slowly rocks your body and embraces you tight with his bulky arms. leaning in his head, ted finally caresses your face and kisses you— signing off the most excellent Valentines day ever. . .

bogus journey ted— either takes you to the movies or rents a movie at the local blockbuster, so he can watch with you in his apartment

for the outing, he takes you to the movies to watch a cheap chick flick he thinks you'd like; popcorn, nachos and a big shake

at home, he puts on a sci-fi movie, both stuffing down on a large pepperoni pizza, watching contently

afterwards, you kick back and relax for a long smoke sesh, getting high on some good weed whilst he puts an arm around you, nestling and cuddling with you close

he'll definitely brings out a guitar and sing to you, smoking a spliff that still rests between his lips (typical lightskin moment)

one way or another in ol' netflix and chill fashion, the night ends with ted loving on your body— giving you the most ultimate rocker boy finale his bodacious girl needs . . .

face the music ted— buys two VIP tickets, for the both of you, to a summer rock festival across state; booking an all-inclusive hotel nearby so you and him can rest in with convenience (away from the kids)

packs all the necessities— snacks, water, a pack of beer, foldable chairs, portable fans, sunscreen, a pair of sunglasses, and a charging bank

you both get to the airport, getting on a plane and travelling off into the concert place

arriving at the hotel; you unlock and enter your room— spacious king-sized double bed, tv, automated bathroom and a great view outside the window. the hotel has an all-you-can-buffet that you never forget to not miss

following the next day, you dress up for the concert; you wear a house of sunny 'lemons on a plate' dress with yellow sandals, and ted wears a white t shirt and cargo shorts, styling up with sandals and a hat

for the whole three days, you and ted rock out to live iconic rock music. screaming, jumping, and partying; dancing like you never you could

golden retriever ted watches out for you; handing you snacks, cleaning after you, supplying water, emergency hugs, cheering you up

breaks into a chuckle and laughs when he catches your boomer self taking videos and pictures, uploading them onto facebook and instagram ('me and hubby @/tedtheologan rocking out at the _____ festival! party on, dudes ! 😎🤩😀😍😆❤️👩‍❤️‍👨💍⚡️🤘🤙🎫🏴‍☠️🎸❤ #____festival #summer #sunny #fun #mostexcellent #smiley #happy #happyvalentinesday #rockfestival #yolo #youngforever #foreveryoung #tb #throwback #80s #1988 #2024 #thenvsnow #wyldstallyns #mosttriumphant #rockmusic #date #valentines #couple #airguitar #happy36thyearanniversary')

last night of the festival ends with a colourful night show, fireworks lighting up and crackling the night sky. under the bright lights, ted takes your hand and holds them. warm, tall body pressed against yours, he gazes down on you with such love. gently caresses your face, hazel orbs boring into yours, rubbing the small of your back soothingly. he closes in and kisses you on the lips, passionately making out with you

the fireworks continuously keep lighting up in the background, looking like a happy ending straight out of a movie.

type of gifts:

handmade stuff: arts and craft/DIY cards with cute stickers, colourful glitter, ribbons and drawings (imagine him getting glue all over his fingers and hands, big 6'1 self hunched over his little creations uwu)— gifts you a teddy bear and says something along the lines of: "babe, i got you this teddy bear, even though i'm, like, totally your teddy bear... and my name is Ted!", some candies, 'girly stuff' like makeup, "..because you're a babe and all..", a handwritten song personally made for you (with the help of wingman Bill), tulips and roses he got from his England expedition, an antique necklace he got from his Greece expedition, heart-shaped chocolates, some tapes and vinyls of your favourite music

john constantine —

type of guy:

typically indifferent

depressingly and callously cynical

not the one to be celebrating stuff like that, but he'll do what it takes to make you happy

he knows it's still worth it, just as long as it's with you

love language is gift giving and physical touch

valentines plans:

literally remembers ON the day, springing up from bed and bolting outside. goes to like 30 different stores, searching for the best presents he can find

runs back home with last minute stuff before the sunset. doorbell suddenly rings and john opens up, smiling as he sees the love of his life, you all prettied up in a cherry red dress, heels and matte makeup (something is bulging...)

you and john get in the car and he drives you out to a late night dinner, only to be met with disappointment when the restaurant he spoke to earlier informs him that the reservations are all booked up

sighing in devastation, john bows his head and shakes disapprovingly. he looks up to give you a weak smile and rubs your back reassuringly, gesturing you to head back inside the car. the both of you drive back to his, decidedly opting for some Chinese

you both head back to his, decidedly opting on some Chinese

john resumes back to finishing the set up of the living room; red candles and roses on the coffee table

impromptu date begins: candle lit dinner in front of the tv, you both drink some wine and eat some takeout, watching a random movie

finishing up, you doze off asleep, snoring on his lap

john still watches the tv, glancing down on you every 5 minutes. he wraps a warm cloth around you, resting a hand on your back. the urge of him to kiss you is burning him alive but he remains neutral.

he's upset that the day has been ruined, the one thing that he could've gotten right all slipped and fell out of his fingers. his callous self for once actually cares about something, something he originally thought was 'insignificant', something he wished it could've gone more better

even though the day didn't go out as planned, you've insisted that it's not too bad—grateful for the date overall. it's small and disorganised, but as least it's something, , as least it all ended with him

types of gifts:

silver antique jewellery, a card, giant teddy bear, a box of chocolates, and roses

john wick —

type of guy:

DILF, DILF, DILF

valentines day with baba yaga?!

already got the whole day planned and sketched out, back-to-back

john's fat wallet's will treat you well

always 'knows a guy', so you know your ass is about to be showered to filth

the wholesome family man side of him will be coming out, abandoning the stoic, brutally cold assassin behind

no more john wick— now it is jardani jovonovich

love language is gift giving, acts of service and physical touch

valentines plans:

he would start the morning with cooking you a nice sunny side up and toast, a side of maple pancakes and coffee. whilst you eat, he calls up a spa centre and gets you booked in at a lavish clinic, ordering some men to take you there privately. he asks you to call up your friends, inviting them to the spa day as well. gives you his card and some change just in case. once you leave, he cleans up your plate and cleans up the house, decorating and preparing whilst you're gone.

a full day later with hanging out with your girls, you return back home, deeply relaxed from the tantalising spa treatment. opening up, the house is completely dark and quiet, only seeing rose petals leading off to somewhere. walking along the rose covered path, you follow it and halt at the dining room. right there at the table, sits your husband of 5 years, warm smile on his face; white polo shirt and jeans. he gets up to greet you, kissing you on the lips and forehead

john's whipped up a classic candle lit dinner, steak and baked potatoes with a glass of wine. after a nice hearty meal, he takes you upstairs via the rose-petal lane, leading you to the bathroom. you're welcomed to a bubbling hot bathtub; two glasses of champagne, face masks, scented candles, and a charcuterie board sitting on the bath rack. you two hop in and relax in the tub, slippery naked bodies against each other. you watch a drama series on his laptop, silently staring at the screen

one blink later and you're in bed with john. big hands clasping on your small waist, bearded kisses and pecks littering on your stomach, muscular strong body dominating over yours, stocky fingers slipping to unholy places; john ends the day with pleasuring you for the night, showing you what no other man but him can give.

types of gifts:

surprise trips, full package spa treatments, his card for shopping trips, makeup, perfume, high end clothes, expensive wine, a bouquet of flowers, chocolate, a small teddy bear, menstruation stuff (pads, tampons, pills, hot water bottle pouch, snacks, his masseuse expertise, baby— this man loves you), anything you want, name a price, john will be your man

thomas anderson (neo) —

type of guy:

similar to constantine but more open-minded in his indifference

either forgot or is pretty clueless on what to do

casually flips through calender and scares himself shocked as he realise the date is tomorrow

goes on a forum to ask for help: "@/cyberspacecatontheweb: any suggestions for valentines day ?? I (37M) and a girlfriend (34F) are going out on a date and I don't know what to do. sm1 help a guy out thx"

goes on the internet and researches on ideas

eventually gives up and just scraps the ideas, goes with the flow

love language is quality time and physical touch

valentines plans:

thomas wakes up early and gets changed; black shirt and suit on. you arriving to the 101 apartment, he takes you out to a Chinese restaurant downtown. orders quite a lot of food— dumplings, stir fry, sweet and sour chicken, rice, hot pot, and bbq ribs. he pays the bill and you two leave, walking out to window shop.

later in the evening, thomas takes you up to a rooftop, sitting down and watching the city below. he hesitates, but then opts to spontaneously show you 'something cool'. gets out a tech device and presses a button, opening up a cybernetic portal. jumps inside and pulls you with him. you both teleport to a white void, confused and scared as fuck. thomas reassures you and shows you some of his latest tricks like emerging buildings and cities out of nowhere, binary codes that pop up and creates a giant ass dog that almost eats you, floating and flying through a cyberspace wormhole. for the last bit, he gently grabs your hand and shows you the last thing he promised: binary codes formulate and change, syncing up together and creating a love heart. thomas presses another button and the heart opens up, revealing a cybernetically generated portrait of you and him, written underneath 'happy valentines day xoxo'. his hands move to your waist and he slowly kisses you, simultaneously taking you back to the real world.

types of gifts:

digitally-made things: flowers, teddy bear, heart, a picture of you. makes a hologram gadget that does origami, a scented candle he remembers you like, cool tech glasses, paired with some gloves, that's installed with a program that allows you to do things- holographic games and worlds all built into these spectacles (norman jayden from heavy rain reference)

jonathan harker —

type of guy:

mr darcy-coded

valentines day with him would be a fairytale, straight out of a book

sensitive, kind, chivalrous, charming, courteous, and hardworking, your princelike husband who will always know how to woo you to your knees

planned everything in his sanctuary, ready to show you how he can treat you well

love language is gift giving, acts of service and quality time

valentines plans:

you wake up to a traditional english breakfast-in-bed; hot tea, coffee, porridge, bread, and eggs, served by maids. then you're being dressed up for the day, maids helping you out into your modest and elegant attire, fixing your hair, doing your makeup, and dusting you down. jonathan escorts you onto to the carriage, heading off first to a picnic at an expansive, spacious garden. The place is embroidered with pretty plants and flowers, fresh fragrance of pollen filling your nose. you and jonathan settle on the grass, laying a blanket. you enjoy some tea, crumpets, scones, and sandwiches, admiring the floral nature. jonathan dotes you inbetween small talk, complimenting your look frequently. for some short time, you both get up and walk around, appreciating the afternoon. after the picnic, he hires a photographer to have your picture taken. you sit on a chair as jonathan stands behind you, posing for the camera.

shortly comes the evening and it's time for the special occasion. you both get onto the carriage again, heading off to a restaurant. the restaurant is filled to the brim of posh people alike, halls decked with chandeliers and embellished with statues and paintings. the pair of you enjoy the night, relishing and dinning happily. jonathan brings you back home, taking you to the bedroom to surprise you with a bundle of flowers and a toy bear. he kisses you softly and gracefully on the head, reminding you of his love. you both tuck into bed and lay down for the night, sleeping peacefully into each other's arms.

type of gifts:

a basket full of roses, lilies, orchids and carnations. handwritten poem, a card enveloped and stamped with a red heart wax seal, chocolates from romania, dainty jewellery, toy bear, fragrance, a trip to paris, tickets to see an opera and a theatre performance, small trinkets, fruits, and a pocketwatch locket.

kevin lomax —

type of guy:

sugar daddy kevinnnnn

toxic but fine husband

will absolutely spoil you rotten, pampering you like a princess

love language is gift giving, physical touch, and acts of service

valentines plans:

first thing in the morning, breakfast's being sent to you at the penthouse. kevin leaves a note on the nightstand: "hey sweetheart, it's me. how was breakfast? it was good, right? i've called in your boss to let him that you're sick, so no need to go to the office. your whole day will be booked: spa treatment, nails, hair, and a private boutique booked so you can try on some new outfits that you'll be choosing for the evening. make sure you wear that lingerie i got you and don't miss any of those appointments. daddy's gonna have fun with you tonight.

love kevin xoxo"

you do as exactly he says, rushing up & down, excitedly getting changed. a black limo takes you to and back of all destinations, attending all your scheduled appointments. at the boutique, a blonde clerk waits for you, standing by a row of clothing racks with designer clothes hanged and heels below to select from. after carefully selecting, you choose a snug black dress and heels, fully dolled up for the occasion. a makeup artist quickly does your makeup, just in the nick of time kevin arrives, black waist coat and suit & tie. you exit the building to find him standing by the car. his eyes wonder around and check you out, hypnotised by your beauty. linking arm to arm, you two are driven to the wall street restaurant. the place is luxurious; interior design opulent and rich. kevin grabs a seat at the vip section, inviting some of his fellow law firm coworkers along. you cheers to a good night and dig in to the fine dining, enjoying the night. almost midnight, you and kevin return back home, immediately jumping into the jacuzzi.

you strip out of your clothes and wear the cute swim piece that kevin's bought for you— a black skimpy bikini that hugs all of your curves and cleavage. you sit back and relax with your man, peacefully sipping some champagne and enjoying each other's company. many drinks and pillowtalks later, the night ends with what you exactly expects: sounds of skin slapping and bed shaking; your moans echo throughout the bedroom. kevin's tall body thrusts repeatedly into you, grunting and groaning as he fucks you. lasting with the real pillow princess treatment, kevin worships your body and makes love to you, showing you who you really belong to. . .

types of gifts:

expensive makeup, luxury trips abroad, designer outfits, exclusive spa treatments, sexy lingerie, his black card for those shopping trips, perfume, deluxe jewellery and accessories, a bouquet of roses tied in a bow, heart-box of chocolates, expensive wine and champagne, adult toys (wink wink), a white teddy bear, polaroid photos of you and him

#𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑠𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑎𝑑𝑒.#ted logan #ted logan x reader #john constantine #constantine 2005 #john constantine x reader #john wick #john wick x reader #neo the matrix #neo x reader #jonathan harker #jonathan harker x reader #kevin lomax #kevin lomax x reader #keanu reeves #valentines day #headcanon #𝑀𝐴𝑅𝑆𝐷𝑂𝑁𝑇𝐵𝐸𝑆𝐴𝐷𝐸.

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tteokdoroki · 7 months

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hi hi !! :3 first off ur new theme is soo so cute!! n for your valentines event i wanted to send in one for satoru + an amusement park date as the gift !! you can make it sweet or spicy but i don’t have a specific kink in mind for it so that’s free range for ya ehehe

⋆ 𝜗𝜚 ˚⟡. — SATORU GOJO. swipe spicy: high on you.

about. boom, it’s a match! satoru gojo has always come up with creative ways to celebrate the most romantic day of the year. this time, he decides to make things a little naughtier atop a ferris wheel ride ( 1.4K ).

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact! nsfw, smut, established relationships, fingering, public sex, exhibitionism, also ik ferris wheels don’t exist at amusement parks shuddap!! fem!reader.

・:〃⤥ bumble date, swipe right event !

every valentine’s day you’ve spent with satoru has been unique. different.

for your first, he’d filled every corner of your apartment with every type of flower he could possible find because he wasn’t sure what type was your favourite (he was too nervous to ask). for the second, he’d rented out an entire aquarium for you to walk through and dragging him through each exhibition with pure unfiltered joy. for the Valentine’s Day that he had proposed — your third or fourth, satoru had rented a plane that carried the message ‘will you marry me?’ to fly over your rooftop dinner date. you’d said yes, of course, and every day with satoru since had been a wild ride.

even now, years into your life together, he remained just as crafty and as adventurous as satoru’s gojo had always been.

“s-satoru!” you squeal needily, tucking your face into your lover’s shoulder in a weak attempt to muffle your weak cries and trembling voice. “‘toru please. n-not here. n-not now,” you add when his slender and inquisitive fingers dip past the waistband of your jeans and the scalloped edge of your cotton panties. he’s been like this all day, feeling you up in line for different rides, licking the sugar from your fingers outside overpriced concessions stands dotted across the amusement park he'd taken you to. and now, satoru’s ravenousness has come to a head — with him trying to finger fuck you at the top of the ferris wheel. “p-people are around!”

while typically a romantic spot to watch the world go by, the white haired man has his heart set on making you squirm and cry at the highest peak of the ride. “that’s what makes this all the more fun, right baby?” his digits flex under the rough denim of your jeans in an attempt to get a feel for your wetness all while gojo whispers sinful words against the shell of your ear — hot breath cascading down the back of your neck and sending shivers down your spine. “relax for me, we’re too high up for anyone to notice. let me make you feel good, yeah?”

your hips buck down against your lover’s hand for a taste of friction — chasing the blistering hot sensation that spreads through your lower tummy once his fingertips come into contact with your swelling, pulsating clit. the very notion of your body succumbing to a few of gojo’s simple touches has him chuckling breathily in your ear, his voice an octave lower than usual. you can’t help the instinctual response of your quivering, a stream of wetness gathering in the seat of your underwear too.

“do you think i can make you cum by the time we reach the top?” satoru mumbles huskily, lowering his head to your neck so that he can place hot, sloppy kisses to your exposed skin — contrasting with the night air. tufts of white hair tickle at your jaw, sending you into a fit of shakes and shivers that make your cart of the ferris wheel rock back and forth. “don’t answer that, i know i can.” he’s cocky when he teases you and has every right to be, your thighs twitch apart instinctively to make space for satoru’s hand between them.

he skilfully massages your pretty little pussy even from underneath tight denim jeans, circling in your entrance as it dribbles sweet salacious nectar for him. so much so, that you might soil the fabric of your clothes. if your arousal seeps through, would you drip and gush on all those people below? the thought crosses your might and only serves to turn you on even more — evident in the way you clench around nothing as gojo plays with your empty hole.

“m-mph, satoru,” you hiccup, only tilting your head to face his. your noses nudge slightly, lips ghosting over one another’s while your hot breath mingles. to anyone else — you appear a couple in love, innocently kissing, enjoying a date to the amusement park, and a ride to the top of the ferris wheel. but you’re far from that, and you know it, two delightfully sinful individuals who can’t keep their hands off of one another. “m-more!”

gojo obliges, and you thank whatever diety is up above for blessing him with such magical fingers. two of them slide past your entrance without resistance, stretching your gooey and sensitive walls around their length easily. “hm? what’s the matter, baby?” comes the silver haired man’s lazy response, a sleazy smirk spreading across his plush pink lips at the sound of you squelching around him already. you shake your head at his question, eyes screwed shut since you’re too far gone with the pleasure to answer coherently.

from your side, gojo uses his free hand to keep you nice and spread for him — sapphire eyes glowing in the dark night whilst remaining trained on the way your hips jut down to push back against his fingers inside of you. “god you’re so fuckin’ wet. you really like this, huh? all tbose unsuspecting people below…having no idea that i’m fucking your pussy open right above their heads,” he purrs hungrily and curls his fingers, instantly finding your g-spot because he’s mapped out every inch of your sopping walls and knows them off by heart. “taste yourself for me.”

your lips part on command and tongue rolls out of your mouth to make room for the fingers that have been inside you — sucking on them diligently when satoru presses down on the palette of your tongue. he gets off to the way you taste yourself, moaning around him nastily. you should feel shame and humiliation for acting like this in public, all desperate and needy, but you’re as ravenous and as depraved as satoru is. it’s what makes you a match made in heaven.

with his fingers now tainted with a crude mix of your saliva and arousal, satoru returns them to your temperate and sopping mound — stuffing you full of him once more. he’s knuckle deep in your cunt before you can even moan his name, stroking your insides into the shape of him while you drool syrupy evidence of your arousal into the seat of his palm.

“we’re almost to the top, brace yourself, pretty girl. i gotta see you cum. it’ll give me the prettiest view.” satoru coos to you patronisingly, making sure to grind his wrist against your puffy clit — refusing to let it go unattended. “can you do that for me?”

everything is so sticky and hot, especially with all of the layers of clothes in the way — shielding your dirty act from any onlookers on the ground or in the carts below you. strings of your slick tie satoru’s fingers to your honeyed sex and glue this thumb to your sensitive nub, tucked away between your puffy pussy lips. you claw at the silver haired man’s arm trapped in the middle of your quivering thighs band writhe around in the cart so much so that it creaks with the weight.

you whimper into the cool night air, but satoru lights your body on fire from the inside out — your gut lurching and twisting with an unbearable sense of yearning. “‘m close… think i’m gonna—“ you begin to stutter, bleating like a lamb being sent to the slaughter. you remain at the mercy of your boyfriend’s fast paced fingers, pumping in and out of you with no regard to the painful stack of ecstasy building up inside of you. “please, i can’t hold it, ‘toru,”

“you don’t have to,” your lover tsks in reply, never slowing the speed of his digits stroking at your ribbed walls, slipping and sliding against pleasure spots only he knows exist. “why don’t you let go for me, yeah? there you go. that’s it… just like that and all for me,” satoru’s mouth find yours in the final stretch, sloppy praises whispered against your kiss swollen lips while he rubs over your luscious and equally swollen folds like his life depends on it. “let the people down there know how fuckin’ good i finger fuck this sweet pussy. cum for me baby, i know you can do it.”

each syllable, each impassioned word that escapes him and that he pours into you drags you by the ankle towards your high — and you don’t even try to fight it. once you reach the very top of the ferris wheel, your peak reaches a crescendo. satoru flings himself over you, arm arm wrapped around your shoulders to keep you in place in the cart as your orgasm crashes over you in drowning waves. you slip beneath the surface of pleasure, your cunt rushing like a river while you cum all over satoru’s masterful hand with a muffled cry of his name.

“satoru!”

“shh, quiet…that’s my girl, my sweet sweet girl.” he sighs dreamily, fucking you with your fingers throughout your high — only pulling out of your greedy cunt to slap down on it, dragging more spurts of arousal out of you. you squirt through your jeans, onto the metal seat in your ferris wheel cart and all over satoru. who happily praises you through it all. “i bet you’re just drippin’ on all those nasty strangers below. i’m sure they’d love it.”

catching your breath, you tuck your face into satoru’s neck while you come down from your high (and literally too — your cart begins to make its descent back town from the top of the ferris wheel). “y-you’re sick.”

satoru smiles, slow and sexy. “but you love me,”

“mhm, sure,” you quip, somehow finding the energy to pull away from your debauched lover to shift to your knees in front of him — the cool metal digging into your knees. “maybe i love you just a little.”

“only a little? then why are you on your knees for me?” he asks, spreading his legs to make room for you between them.

“it’s your turn, i want to see if i can make you come before we get to the bottom of the wheel.” you say breathlessly and with mirthy eyes, teeth descending on gojo’s zipper while you bat your eyelashes up at him.

celebrating valentine’s day with satoru was always…unique. different…but you’d be lying if you said you failed to enjoy his unconventional methods of gift giving with the person you loved most.

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oddballwriter · 8 months

Text

Valentine's Day with the Moon Boys

Warnings: None that I really know of. To be fully honest I can't think of anything at all but if there is any then just let me know.

Author’s Snip: Happy early Valentine's to you all! 💘

I’ll shut up now. Enjoy! And don’t be afraid to request.

Steven Grant

The literal archetype of a Valentine

Steven gets you a mixed bouquet of your favorite flowers and some other flowers that mean something in flower language in regards to love, a gift basket of your favorite candy and snacks, and a handwritten card that is basically a love letter

And he gets you two a spot at that fancy restaurant you like

It's literally how you see a couple celebrating Valentine's Day in the movies

He's happy about any gift you got him too but honestly he, and the rest of them, love spending the day with you the most

Cliché? Yeah. But it's true. Steven loves quality time and being with you. And Valentine's Day makes it a bit more special even though they all love you year round

He also gets a bit giddy when you call him your Valentine even though he's your boyfriend/husband, it just makes him blush a little

Marc Spector

Marc is the type of person to complain about Valentine's Day and goes on the whole "It's just a way to sell overpriced chocolate and stuff." but he'll be damned if he doesn't do something with you either

He hates the commercialization of the holiday but he's your Valentine regardless, them's the rules

Marc also doesn't really like the whole fact that everyone is in all the restaurants to have dinner because then there's no parking and it takes a long time to get seated

If you want to actually go then he sucks it up because it's still nice to go out with you, but he actually prefers ordering from the restaurants and eating at home

You guys honestly have more power and say over things if you order delivery from there. If you want to feel fancy then you guys can get the fancy plates and put the food on them, buy some wine or whatever dress the dinner table with a cloth and candles, dress all fancy, and just eat there.

No loud chatter of other people or a waiter to come in at the wrong time and ruin the moment between the two of you.

Maybe you want to slow dance after eating. And you can just do that. You can just walk into the living room put on some music and gently slow dance and sway for as long as you want.

It's honestly so romantic with it genuinely just being the two of you together with no interruptions

Jake Lockley

Jake might be the one who takes you on a "normal" date, as in it's like all your other dates or it's not your typical "Valentine's Day" type of date. But he makes sure that it still feels special in its own way.

Like you do to the same diner and spot that you usually do but there's just this air to it that makes it so deeply intimate and romantic in its own way that only you two feel

I do like the idea of Jake basically "running away from a day" with you where you two just hop into his car and drive somewhere, sort of go on an adventure

I honestly don't know how to describe it other than you guys just go somewhere and there's just this type air to it that makes it something that isn't just the fact that it's Valentine's day

Like idk maybe you find this clearing that has a nice view or you just drive someplace specific

Something that later on down the line becomes "your spot"

You guys are basically having your own Rapunzel and Eugene on the boat moment or any type of moment where its just very much a loving/falling in love scene except you guys are probably falling even deeper in love

Taglist: Applications open

#moon knight #moonknight #moon knight x reader #moonknight x reader #jake lockley #steven grant #marc spector #marc spector x reader #steven grant x reader #jake lockley x reader

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gen4grl · 8 months

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timeskip zero crew + written bios below !

with the sv cycle coming to an end, i’d thought i’d share my timeskip zero crew designs! friendship and the impact it can have on an individual has always been a key feature of pokemon - with sv easily executing that theme the best. zero crew has an extremely special place in my heart and think i speak for everyone when i say i'm gonna miss this group a lot ♥︎

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄��⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

JULIANA

♡ Originally from a small island in the North Paldean Sea. Homeschooled until her family moved to mainland Paldea where she started her public education at Uva Academy.

♡ Socially awkward, clumsy and struggles with organisation. Not the best with words but a fantasic listener. Booksmart and tends to be a people pleaser to a fault.

♡ Despite her awkwardness, is obliviously confident. Confessed her feelings and asked Arven to be her boyfriend after Area Zero, believing it was just a one way crush. Definitely was not and have been dating since.

♡ Was extremely overwhelmed starting school with no clue what direction she wanted her live to go in. After the events of Area Zero and collecting Herba Mystica, realised she wanted to become a pharmaceutical scientist with the goal of making Herba Mystica more wildly available in a medicinal format for people and their pokémon. Cites Director Clavell and Jacq as her biggest inspirations.

♡ Still considers Carmine, Kieran and the former BB League members some of her closest friends. The groups enjoy traveling together between Paldea, Kitakami and Unova together.

♡ Enjoys beers, fried food, karaoke & visiting the night markets in Porto Marinada.

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NEMONA

♡ Graduated with distinctions in all classes but dreams of making a name for herself outside her wealthy family. Currently works fulltime at Uva Acadmeny as a battle studies teacher with the end goal of becoming Champion.

♡ Lives in a high rise apartment in the center of Mesagoza overlooking the battle court. Absolutely loves the lively and fast paced energy of the city.

♡ Despite being extremely outgoing, struggles with making and maintaining friendships. Holds Juliana extremely close to her heart as she believes she was the first person to ever really 'get her'. First came out to Juliana after the groups adventure to Area Zero. Currently crushing on Carmine.

♡ Often mistaken for being a 'tomboy' but has quite alot of interest in typically 'feminine' things but has trouble connecting and expressing this part of her. Particularly likes plushies, collecting perfume and playing piano in which she is extremely gifted.

♡ Detail oriented and enjoys organisation. Wakes up at 5:30 every morning and runs from Mesagoza to Levincia no matter what she did the previous night.

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ARVEN

♡ Only child of the late Professor Turo. Originally withdrawn and standoffish; after learning of his fathers passing, became extremely family & friend focused. Would love to have his own family in the future. Considers Clavell a second father.

♡ Originally specialised in traditional savoury Paldean dishes but developed a love for baking after making Juliana macarons for their first Valentines Day together.

♡ After graduation, worked as a dish hand in a small bar in Porto Marinada. Worked his way up to line cook while occasionally doing pokémon walking and sitting on the side. Currently the manager of the new Mesagoza Patisserie Soapberry location. Spends his income on renovating the lighthouse where he lives with Juliana, Mabosstiff and Miraidon.

♡ Prized possessions include his fathers old lab coat and journals recovered from the Zero Lab. Gifted an oddly familar version of the presumably lost Violet Book by Juliana after her return from stuyding at Blueberry Academy which he keeps in his nightstand.

♡ Due to his unique upbringing and feelings of isolation; is very protective and easily jealous in both platonic and romantic relationships.

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PENNY

♡ Originally from Hulbury, Galar. Daughter of former Galar champion, Peony. Currently lives in an old industrial loft with Atticus and Giacamo in downtown Mesagoza. Loves city life but misses the small beachtown vibes of her hometown. While developing a closer relationship with her dad after gradution, has no intentions of moving back home to Galar.

♡ Prefers to keep her circle small but cares deeply for her friends to a point of getting herself in bad situations to help them. Still learning how to put herself first in certain sitations with help and advice from Arven.

♡ Works full time for the Pokémon League doing admin work. Does occasional hairdressing on the side mostly for friends and mutuals. Specialises in bleaching and alternative cuts and colours. Originally a brunette - wouldn’t be caught dead with grown out roots.

♡ Has a terrible diet consisting mostly of cup ramen, sushi and whatever the cheapest energy drink is. Sleeps around 4 hours each night after spending her after work hours gaming online with Kieran; excluding Wednesdays where she plays Magic the Gathering with Team Star.

♡ Homebody who loves reading + collecting manga and crafts; particularly sewing and knitting after being taught by Attitcus.

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paintbrushnebula · 1 month

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Ghostflower Headcanons

As romantic gestures, Miles loves setting up these elaborate (if a little overkill) activities for Gwen to do, whether it's a special occasion or just. whenever feels like it. They're always these elaborate treasure hunts that he'll set up for her to complete. Like for Valentine's Day--Gwen never stirs in her sleep, so he'll surround her sleeping form with lilacs and peonies all around on the bed so she can wake up basking in their scent. Then this gesture will be somehow tooled as the first clue in this elaborate scavenger hunt across several dimensions, each stop being a cute little romantic gesture like a lovely written note or souvenirs from their times together. He'll have like, puzzles that require playing music or reading scores to move forward in the hunt. And Gwen LOVES them. She likes adventures and the ones Miles orchestrates for her always involve her having to use her many talents. She kinda sees Miles' games as a sweet, fun way of staying sharp. ^_^

Miles will mindlessly rub his face against Gwen's cheek whenever when he greets her or bids her farewell after a long day. A lot of people find it a little strange lol, but know better than to judge Miles in front of Gwen.

Ghostflower's petnames....so Miles sucks at pet names. He can't think of any good ones besides whatever he's heard his Mami say to Jeff (so just the usual "mi amor.") Mamita works for her too. But aside from that, all the typical English pet names (so like "honey," "sweetie," etc) just feel weird coming off his tongue, he thinks they're cringe and he hates saying them XD. Besides there's just something about how much he loves saying Gwen's name. He loves her name. It's like music to him. And every new time he says it makes his heart flutter more than the last. Gwen's pet names for Miles on the other hand are very... eherm...varied. Like she does use all the typical English pet names, but she'll also randomly spout some very creative names that have to do with situations they're in or objects she just saw or smth, I hope I'm explaining this right 😭 So for example, "my weighted blanket" (if they were just sleeping), or "cupcake brain," "coffee bean," "my bespeckled cheekster" or some other stupid thing she randomly comes up with on the spot XD.

Gwen is big spoon but Miles will jump off a bridge if Hobie finds out

Lol in fact, a lot of how Gwen treats Miles (fluffy pet names, cuddling him) is stuff Miles never wants Hobie to see XD. So picture Miles melting into Gwen on the couch while she runs fingers through his hair, then Hobie walks in and Miles flings himself right out of Gwen's arms, sitting up straight and clearing his throat, "aherm, wh-whassup' man." And like, Hobie probably wouldn't even give a dang XD. But Miles feels the need to keep up this... intimidating "not some feeble gumdrop" reputation around certain spiders like Hobie, Miguel, and now Peter B, etc.

Gwen hates the heat, she always has to have the AC on or at least a fan in front of her. Sometimes both. But Miles is very sensitive to the cold. So this becomes a dilemma when they're in the same room. Then it breaks out into a back and forth "no it's okay, I can turn it off/No it's okay! I can just put on a jacket!" Eventually they'll reach a compromise: Gwen can have the AC, but she has to cuddle Miles close so he can keep warm.

Miles likes to paint or draw on Gwen a LOT. Like it basically becomes the norm Gwen's their friends and family to see her walking around with what appears to be temporary "tattoos." Sometimes there'll be "Miles x Gwen" in graffiti-styled lettering on her shoulder, or little spider-man chibis with little speech bubbles, or a jumble of illustrations of places they've been to, lyrics from songs he likes, and just colorful geometry painted all around her arm like a tattoo sleeve, or sunflowers on her cheeks, or just random lines and shapes here and there on her knuckles, arms or jawline. Miles will paint on her whenever he has the chance, whether she's in conversation with a completely different person, or she's doing work, writing, eating-anything. She always lets him, she loves it. And when they're alone and he's drawing on her, they'll sit in a comfortable silence the whole time, it's very...entrancing for Gwen when they're alone in a quiet room and he's hardly making any noise while she feels markers and paintbrushes dancing across her skin.

#atsv #spiderverse #across the spiderverse #gwen stacy #miles morales #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderverse headcanons #ghostflower #gwiles #gwen x miles #miles x gwen

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keithsandwich · 7 months

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A Sweet Taste

Pairing: Silvio/MC (Emma)

Word Count: ~2.5k

Warnings: Swearing, bickering, a brief mention of seasickness.

Summary: During Silvio and Emma's first voyage together, Silvio decides to make her a surprise for Valentine's. However, nothing can stop her curiosity.

Notes: Written for @goustmilk for the My Ikémen Valentine Gift Exchange, hosted by @ikemenlibrary. This was my first time writing for Silvio, and I really hope you like it, Dani!!

Emma was getting used to the sway of the waves and the creaking sounds of the ship. They didn’t disturb her anymore while sleeping, especially when Silvio made a habit of enveloping her tightly in his arms every night. They were heading to another continent where her lover had business to attend to, and he had decided to take her with him for a little adventure of their own. She couldn’t be happier; their days were always filled with new lessons as they sailed together on the open sea under a bright blue sky, the sun unusually warm for February. And their nights were always filled with love, and now also with rest, since she could fall into a deep sleep in his arms until morning came, finding herself still within his grip as she woke up.

Emma let out a groggy sigh that morning, anticipating the warmth of his presence, ready to tease him about being as needy as a puppy for cuddling her all night long. However, to her surprise, there were no arms around her this time.

Emma turned quickly in bed, patting his side of their bed, but the sheets were cold, and there was no sign of Silvio in their quarters. Emma sat up straight, frowning; it wasn’t like him to let her sleep in without even letting her know he was leaving. He knew she would be worried, and if it weren’t for the gentle swing of the ship and the peaceful sounds outside — the closest semblance of silence within the ever-noisy wooden vessel at sea — she would be downright alarmed. Still, she wondered what could have been so urgent that made him leave without his typical, brazen, yet sweet “Oi! Sleepyhead! I have business to take care of, but you stay and sleep some more”.

Emma dressed quickly before emerging from the captain’s quarters. The door creaked softly as she stepped onto the deck, her eyes squinting against the sunlight. Her gaze swept across the deck, searching for her lover, but she saw no trace of his pale-blue hair being tousled by the sea breeze, a perfect match to the sea waves. There was no jewelry shining under the sun. No haughty voice giving off commands to the crew, no jangling sounds. She bit her lip, growing more anxious to find him. Moving towards the nearby navigator’s area, she slowly pushed open the door and scanned the room for Silvio. As she did, her heart clenched. There, between maps, charts, compasses, and astrolabes, she could only find Carlo behind the desk, absorbed in his work.

“Good morning, Carlo…” she announced her presence with a gentle knock on the door, which she was still holding.

He seemed startled by her voice and looked at her apologetically.

“Good morning! Ah… I’m sorry I hadn’t noticed you there, I was too caught up with calculations, and…”

“That’s okay, really,” Emma waved her hands placatingly. There was no need for apologies or explanations — especially when she still couldn’t understand his work entirely — and she wished he could focus on her words instead. “I was just wondering if you know where Silvio is.”

“I-I-I… he…” Carlo stuttered, looking around as if searching for something — maybe his words. “Actually, he asked me to tell you to wait for him here. He’s… taking care of something important below deck…”

Emma couldn’t help but furrow her eyebrows suspiciously. Carlo was hiding a secret, that much was obvious. Silvio was up to something, and he was covering up for him. But what could he possibly be conspiring in a ship?

“I see.” She nodded in agreement, but in her mind, she was weighing two possibilities: either let it go and wait for Silvio as he intended, or... “Below deck, you say?”

“Lady Emma, you don’t know the passageways well; you’ll get lost if you go after him,” Carlo moved from his desk to dissuade her from her intentions. “I can show you how... how to use the astrolabe if you please. Or we can discuss any matter you would like.”

It was too late, however.

“I’m sorry, Carlo,” it was her turn to smile apologetically, although Emma didn’t truly regret her decision. She set herself on the move, knowing full well Carlo was exasperatedly following her steps. “If I am to become familiar with this ship, I must also learn the ways my lover has of being secretive with me here. Or did he honestly expect me to sit still and wait for him?”

Granted, he would whine about it, but Silvio knew her. And he wouldn’t love her so much had she been obedient to his whims.

The recipe had been carefully written down on paper by Emma’s favorite confectioner. Silvio had made sure to pay him a visit the last time he went to Rhodolite. How Silvio managed to keep that recipe a secret, as well as his trips to the palace’s kitchen to practice under the guise of attending business meetings, remained a mystery, and he was proud of his deeds so far. Spending their very first Valentine’s Day together on the ship would be necessary, but he was determined to make that day special for Emma. Since cakes would spoil during the trip and chocolate boxes would melt in the storage room, the best option was to learn how to bake and do it himself in the galley.

She used to cook and bake for him all the time, and he felt good doing the same for her — although he would never say it out loud. But was Silvio still feeling confident now that he was covered in flour and ingloriously trying to beat the batter while double-checking the recipe and attempting to ensure the oven was at the correct temperature all at the same time? His grumbled profanities revealed a man far less confident than he was while conducting his tests in the palace. But a full kitchen with a steady floor was different from a galley swinging along the sea waves; and having a considerable amount of time was different from trying to rush things out to surprise Emma before she woke up.

Asking Carlo to stall her in case she did — because she definitely would look for him first thing — and trusting he could actually do it were two different things. For all that was worth, Emma was stubbornly obstinate and couldn't behave for shit. The thought of her irritating antics made Silvio blush. Unbeknownst to him, his eyebrows furrowed, and his lips formed a little pout. He beat the batter harder, causing it to spill all over the place.

“Cazzo!” Silvio couldn’t help but shout angrily, leaving the whisk in the bowl as he made an indignant hand gesture.

He sighed heavily, looking down at the chocolate batter in the bowl, its sweet scent a harsh contrast to the salty sea air. Silvio’s haughty expression softened little by little as he remembered why he was doing this, and soon he took the whisk again and resumed beating the mixture. “The more you beat it, the fluffier it’ll get after baking!”, the confectioner had said. “And Miss Emma loves fluffy cakes,” he added.

Fluffy, sweet, covered in sugar that melted in your mouth. The thought of Emma’s delight warmed his heart and brought a smile to his lips, the silly rush of emotions making his cheeks warm with a blush again.

Good thing no one was there to see it.

Emma navigated through the narrow passageways of the ship, with Carlo trailing closely behind. While she was aware of what lay below the deck — the crew’s cabins, the galley, the storage rooms — most of it remained a mystery to her. Despite her limited familiarity, there was one place she felt more comfortable with than others. Although it didn’t make any sense for Silvio to be there, her feet naturally guided her right to the galley.

“Lady Emma,” Carlo persisted, trying to reason with her. “If Prince Silvio doesn’t want to be found, don’t you think it's better to wait for him on deck? I'm sure he has a good reason…”

“Carlo, let’s make a deal,” she said, slowing down and turning to him. Her voice was hushed, mindful not to reveal their presence in case Silvio was nearby. “Just show me where he is. All I want is to know what he’s up to. We can return to the deck before he even notices us.”

Suddenly, the faint scent of salt and dried fish in the air was overtaken by a sweet aroma. Emma inhaled deeply, confused by the captivating scent she wasn’t expecting to encounter there. Was it... cake? Could it be that Silvio was baking her a cake? She threw an inquiring glance at Carlo, as if she had voiced her doubts, and he looked back at her with a conflicted expression.

“Porca miseria!” Silvio’s frustrated curses echoed from somewhere nearby, dismissing the need for Carlo’s guidance. Emma’s heart quickened with anticipation as she followed the source of the sound and that amazing scent, her senses guiding her through the labyrinth of corridors of the ship.

With Carlo never leaving her side, she rounded a corner and saw Silvio surrounded by flour-dusted surfaces and the warm glow of the galley’s oven. His brow furrowed in concentration, his hands a flurry of activity as he wrestled with the batter before him. She halted and took a step back, almost colliding with Carlo in the process. But she had promised him she wouldn’t let Silvio know they were there. The image of her lover working with such dedication made her smile uncontrollably, though, and she wished she could let out a giggle.

“Can we head back now?” Carlo whispered urgently.

Emma hummed softly while considering, peeking from behind the corner to watch Silvio struggling to put the batter in the baking pan while the ship swayed more forcefully. “Why is he baking a cake, though?” she murmured to herself.

“Don’t you know?” Carlo whispered a little louder in surprise. “Oh, right, sorry. You must’ve lost track of time here. It’s Valentine’s Day today, Lady Emma.”

“Is it?” Her whisper was even louder, and she immediately covered her mouth, hoping Silvio hadn’t heard her. “You should’ve let me know; I wanted to do something for him, too.”

She had believed they would have already reached land by the 14th, but apparently, she had miscalculated the duration of the trip when Silvio told her about it. She had been so excited and touched by the sight of Silvio baking her a cake, but now she was starting to feel guilty for not doing something special for him too.

“He had mentioned he wanted to do something for you this time, since you’re always doing so much for him. Not in those exact words, of course, but I know him well enough to understand.”

Emma knew exactly what Carlo was talking about, and it only made her heart race faster for her lover. “Carlo, I’m sorry, but I have to go there.”

“You told me you wouldn’t…”

“I know, but I have to. Besides, he seems like he needs help, and-”

Emma turned to peek at Silvio again to check how he was doing, but what she saw was the glistening gold of the necklaces on his chest. Really close. She raised her eyes sheepishly and met his annoyed stare.

“Who the hell told ya I need help?” Silvio stood with his hands on his hips, chocolate smudges staining the fancy fabric of his clothes, telling another story. “And you? Thought I told ya to keep her away from here. How come you both ended up like damned rats nosing around and chattering in my galley?”

“You left me without saying a word!” Emma retorted boldly, matching Silvio's assertiveness and cutting off Carlo before he could start apologizing. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You couldn’t possibly have expected me to sit still! Besides... you’re obviously in need of help,” her eyes roamed from his messy clothes to the messy galley.

“You’re impossible, woman!”

They pouted at each other, forming a pair of stubborn, hot-blooded fools. Their cheeks flushed even more by the second as they engaged in a stare-down. The moment Emma’s gaze wavered and she looked away from Silvio’s sea-blue eyes, he felt a pang in his heart. With an unintelligible mutter, he shook his head.

“Fine! Damn it! It’s Valentine’s Day, so stop spouting nonsense and come help me already!”

Emma was getting used to the sway of the waves and the creaking sounds of the ship. Silvio noticed it in the way she danced around the galley completely undisturbed, mixing the batter with light movements, taking care of the oven, and ensuring the cake pan was ready before pouring the batter into it. She moved as naturally as she would in the palace's kitchen, quite the evolution for someone who had experienced seasickness like Valerio usually did during her first days at sea.

She really was amazing.

As it turns out, his first attempt didn't go well. The batter got stuck in the pan, and the cake didn't rise, so she was working her magic to ensure that they would have something for the day. And for as long as he wished to do that alone, helping her out while she baked felt like they were already celebrating Valentine's Day together. Good thing Emma decided to stick her cute little nose in his business, and that he decided to let her in. Carlo politely left them alone — he definitely didn't want to be involved in their mess in the first place. And now, everything felt in the right place.

Except for her lips, when, after they placed the pan in the oven, she suddenly leaned in not only for a simple kiss but also for a tiny lick on his cheek. The surprising sensation made Silvio shiver and blush uncontrollably, flinching away from her touch. Emma giggled shamelessly at her bold actions.

“There was still some batter on your cheek, and I wanted to taste it,” she explained nonchalantly. “Silvio, you taste so sweet right now, you know that?”

“Sh-shut up!!” He spat, frowning at her, but her annoying behavior, and the way she glowed brighter and warmer than the oven in front of them, were simply too endearing to him. The fact was that he loved her, and she was the only person in the world who could evoke such feelings in him.

As suddenly as she kissed him, Silvio wrapped his arm around her waist and pressed their bodies together. His kiss was on her lips, stronger, with a hunger no cake could satisfy. When he rendered her breathless, Silvio broke the kiss and smirked at her.

“Now, you,” he murmured, his fingers gently brushing back a lock of her hair behind her ear, tracing a delicate path through the strands. Her beautiful eyes shined in anticipation, and he smiled honestly. It was Valentine's Day, and there would be no real celebration if he wasn't true to her. “You taste sweet all the time…”

Taglist: @bicayaya @queengiuliettafirstlady @olivermorningstar

#my ikemen valentine gift exchange #ikemen prince #silvio ricci #silvio/mc #silvio/emma #ikepri #fanfic #tw swearing

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moeitsu · 5 months

Text

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Ch 12 - Though Mine Beat Faster Far Than Thine (Part 1)

Summary: Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God in a world that is ugly with violence and hate.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Previous Chapter / Next Chapter

PLEASE READ BELOW:

Content Advisory 18+: This chapter contains graphic depictions of bodily torture, unsettling imagery, themes of death and child loss, grief, mourning, blood, gore, bodily fluids, and implied sexual assault. If you are sensitive to these adult themes, please approach with caution.

This is your warning: The content within this chapter is intense and may not be suitable for all readers.

A/N: Part 2 of this chapter will probably come out next week. I was originally going to do it in one part but this chapter alone is 13.5k words. I apologize in advance for what's about to unfold. Pls don't hate me.

Tag List: @photo1030 @ariacherie @thatweirdcatlady @ultraporcelainpig

**please let me know if you would like to be tagged in future chapters!

Story Tags: Widowed, Original Character(s), High-Honor!Arthur Morgan, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby!Arthur Morgan, Canon Divergence, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Sex, Eventual Romance, Emotional Sex, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort,Touch-Starved, Sexual Tension, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Infant Death, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Torture, Blood and Violence, Survivor Guilt, Aftermath of Torture, Caretaking, Injury Recovery, Period-Typical Racism, Anxiety, Self-Hatred, Night Terrors, Emotional Constipation, Self-Doubt, Men Crying, Bathing/Washing, Sweet/Hot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff

Under the blazing Lemoyne sun, finding relief from the heat was like chasing a mirage. But in the heart of Clemens Point, life thrived despite the drought. The grass was a vivid green, speckled with bursts of colorful flowers that seemed to defy the arid conditions. Birds filled the air with their lively chatter, while bees and butterflies danced among the blossoms, competing for the sweet treasures hidden within.

Meanwhile, Arthur, Dutch's trusted right-hand man, was as busy as ever. Always on the lookout for opportunities to line the gang's pockets, his latest adventure had involved a risky venture to rob the Valentine bank. Alongside Bill and Karen, they'd pulled off the heist with typical outlaw flair, though not without facing down some trigger-happy lawmen on their way out. Despite the thrilling danger of the heist, Arthur couldn’t help but shake his head, wondering when this will finally be enough.

Arthur had grown accustomed to Dutch's evasive responses whenever he attempted to discuss the gang's plans. Each time, Dutch would offer vague reassurances that everything was under control, leaving Arthur feeling more frustrated and in the dark than ever. The mention of Tahiti had become little more than a running joke among the gang, a distant dream that seemed increasingly out of reach with each passing day.

And then there was Micah, always worming his way into Dutch's good graces with flattery and false admiration. Arthur watched with a mixture of disdain and apprehension as Micah spun his tales of Dutch's unparalleled brilliance and leadership. Despite Dutch's apparent blindness to Micah's ulterior motives, Arthur saw through the facade, recognizing the dangerous influence the sycophantic outlaw wielded over their leader.

Arthur leaned against the post at the back of the gang leader's tent, as Dutch and Micah strategized inside, his gaze drifted to the shoreline. There, he watched Kate teaching Jack to skip stones, her laughter carrying faintly on the breeze. Each moment with her seemed to deepen his feelings, from the gentle touch of her hands to the genuine concern he felt for her safety. He found himself constantly drawn to her, seeking her out in quiet moments when he wasn't consumed by work. Yet, despite the intensity of his emotions, he couldn't find the words to express them.

As the afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the scene, Arthur wrestled with his growing affection for Kate. Her presence had become a beacon of warmth and solace in his turbulent life. He longed to confide in her, to bare his soul and share the depths of his feelings. But fear held him back, fear of rejection, fear of vulnerability. And so, he remained silent, his emotions simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge. Her words a constant echo in his mind; don’t keep hidden what matters, even from yourself.

“Are you even listening to us, Morgan?” Micah’s voice sliced through Arthur's reverie. With an exasperated roll of his eyes, he pushed himself off the post, turning to face the tent. Inside, Dutch lounged on his cot, a cigar dangling from his fingers, while a map sprawled across his nightstand. Micah, on the other hand, stood opposite him, arms crossed with a casual arrogance that made Arthur's skin crawl.

As he glanced around, he noticed Molly sitting just outside the tent, her presence a silent witness to their conversation. The ongoing disputes between her and Dutch had become a constant source of tension within the gang, their arguments echoing through the camp at night. Despite the turmoil, Molly still remained by Dutch's side, despite how miserable she appeared. Always resisting the efforts of the other women to draw her into their daily routines and conversations. Arthur felt sympathy for the young woman.

With a weary sigh and a shake of his head, Arthur responded, “Yeah, I heard you. And it sounds like a load of horse shit.” The weight of frustration hung heavy in his words as he braced himself for the inevitable clash of wills.

Earlier that day, Pearson had approached Micah with intriguing news. According to him, he had encountered some of Colm O'Driscoll's men in town. They professed a desire for peace, claiming that Colm wished to negotiate a parley with the rival gang. Arthur immediately smelled a trap. He couldn't fathom a man like Colm harboring anything but pure hatred in his heart. The feud between Colm and Dutch ran deep, stretching back to a time long before Arthur had joined the gang as a child.

Micah, however, seemed unfazed by the potential danger, dismissing Arthur's concerns with a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Well, since you've been running around digging us into even deeper shit, I reckon this might just lighten the load a little," Micah retorted, his tone dripping with arrogance.

Arthur's jaw clenched as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Placing his hands on his gun belt, he took a step closer to Micah, his voice laced with irritation. "You mean your shit, Micah. Pearson ain’t got half the brains to con this mess. This has your dumbass written all over it," he shot back, the jingle of his spurs punctuating each step on the wooden floor of the makeshift room.

Micah's words hung in the air, thick with false hope and calculated manipulation. “You’re always tellin’ us Dutch, do what has to be done…but don’t fight wars that ain’t worth fightin’. Maybe Colm finally wants peace.” He explained.

Arthur's gaze hardened as he watched the scene unfold, his brows furrowing in frustration. The way Micah twisted Dutch's principles to suit his own agenda made Arthur's stomach churn with anger.

Hosea's timely interruption added a layer of gravity to the situation. His voice, filled with wisdom born of experience, cut through the tension like a knife. "Colm wants a parley?" he questioned, his tone laced with skepticism. "It's a trap," he asserted, his words carrying the weight of undeniable truth.

Micah's sigh of resignation seemed almost rehearsed, his arms extending in a theatrical display of defeat. "Well, of course, it's probably a trap," he conceded, his tone dripping with sarcasm. But then, with a pleading look directed at Dutch, he continued, "but what have we got to lose finding out?"

Arthur gritted his teeth at the sight, his frustration boiling beneath the surface. The way Micah spoke to Dutch, manipulating him with false hope and veiled threats, made Arthur sick to his stomach. He couldn't understand how Dutch could tolerate it, let alone seem to enjoy it.

"We could get shot," Arthur interjected bluntly, his voice cutting through the air like a whip.

Dutch's silent nod of agreement spoke volumes. "Colm ain't one to do things so… gentleman-like," he mused, his expression clouded with uncertainty.

Micah's dismissive shake of the head implied that the concerns were unfounded, mere misunderstandings in his eyes. "We ain't gettin' shot, because you'll be protecting us," he stated confidently, his hand resting heavily on Arthur's left shoulder. It was clear from his tone that he had already made up his mind; he would appoint himself as the right-hand man during the parley, regardless of Arthur's objections.

Arthur shot a disapproving glance at Dutch, silently pleading for his support. But Dutch's expression betrayed no hint of intervention; he seemed to be already envisioning how the situation would unfold.

"If it's a trap, you shoot the lot of them. If it's not…" Micah's voice trailed off, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

With a frustrated huff, Dutch walked past them, his irritation palpable. "I'm not really seeing the point in any of this," he muttered, making his way over to the table where Hosea sat, reading the paper.

Micah followed behind like a persistent nuisance, his voice bordering on whining. "It's a chance we gotta take!" he insisted.

Dutch sighed heavily, leaning his arms on the table as he shared a somber revelation. "I killed Colm's brother... a long time ago. Then he killed a woman I loved dearly." The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, casting a solemn pall over the group.

A moment of silence passed amongst them, punctuated only by Micah's sympathetic hum. But he quickly interjected once again, his tone brimming with impatience. "As you say. It was a long time ago, Dutch."

Dutch gazed out at the water, his mind undoubtedly consumed by the weight of their shared history. With a final puff of his cigar, he threw it into the dirt, his decision made. "Alright. Let's go then. You and me, with Arthur protecting us," he declared, his voice firm with resolve.

Arthur's frustration was evident as he shook his head, a deep furrow forming between his brows. With a muttered curse under his breath, he threw a hand up in the air in exasperation, a gesture of his growing annoyance. Resigned to the unfolding events, he fell into step behind Dutch, his footsteps heavy with irritation as he made his way to his trusty mare, waiting patiently nearby.

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Kate hadn't intended to eavesdrop, but the weight of Arthur's frustration and concern in his voice drew her curiosity like a moth to flame. Along the grassy shoreline, she quickened her pace until she caught up to Arthur just as he was about to mount Belle.

Drawing his attention by placing a comforting hand on his shoulder, she couldn't help but inquire, "What's this I hear about a parley?"

Turning to greet her Arthur let out a heavy sigh, his irritation palpable. "Micah seems to think Colm O'Driscol wants peace, apparently," he muttered, his tone laden with disbelief.

"Peace? From the same man who's been chasing you lot since Blackwater?" Kate's incredulity rang clear in her voice.

"Yep, that's the one," Arthur replied, his spirits low.

Kate exhaled sharply, frustration evident in her features. "That's clearly a trap," she remarked, stating the obvious.

"I know," Arthur admitted, his voice tinged with resignation.

"Then why are you going along with it?" Kate pressed with unmistakable concern.

Leaning against the side of his saddle, Arthur gave her a sympathetic look. "Someone's gotta make sure Dutch doesn't get his head blown off."

"If he's foolish enough, I say let him. Maybe they'll shoot Micah as well," Kate quipped with a roll of her eyes.

A brief chuckle escaped Arthur's lips, her irreverence momentarily lifting his sour mood. "Wouldn't that be somethin’,” he mused. “But I can’t let it happen. I'll be up in the hills with a rifle, trained right on Colm. Just in case he tries anything."

Kate let out a deep sigh through her nose, her brows pinching with unease. "I still don’t think it’s a good idea. If you’re protecting them, who's protecting you?" Her tone carried a weight of seriousness, the gravity of the situation settling heavily upon her shoulders.

With a soft chuckle, Arthur reached out and gently squeezed her hand. "I don’t need protecting darlin’. I'll be just fine," he reassured her, though the lines of concern etched into his features betrayed his words.

"What if I come with you?" Kate suggested, brushing aside his reassurance with determined persistence.

Arthur shook his head slightly, his expression turning somber. "I don’t want you gettin’ roped into all that. Colm’s a nasty man, and I don’t need him comin’ for you too." His eyes bore into hers with genuine concern. He wished he didn't have to involve himself in Dutch's risky schemes, but loyalty demanded otherwise. If there was one thing he could protect Kate from, it was getting entangled in Dutch’s dangerous endeavors.

With a defeated sigh, Kate lowered her gaze. "Just promise me you’ll be cautious? And you’ll shoot him if he tries anything," she implored, her words more of a command than a request.

"I promise, Kate," Arthur vowed solemnly, his tone tinged with determination. With a final nod, he mounted Belle and tipped his hat in farewell before riding off into the camp to catch up with the others, leaving Kate behind with a heart heavy with worry.

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As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows across the camp, Kate found herself amidst the nightly routine of caring for her beloved mare, Lorena. Yet, unlike other evenings, Lorena seemed unusually restless, her ears flicking nervously, her hooves stomping the ground, and her pacing creating a small cloud of dust around her. Kate furrowed her brow in concern, attempting to soothe her companion's nerves with a gentle song, though she couldn't discern the cause of her distress.

Observing Lorena's behavior, Kate couldn't help but notice the absence of her mare's newfound companion, Belle. The two horses had formed a deep bond, she often watched them grooming each other, playing together, and even sleeping side by side. It was a testament to the camaraderie that extended beyond the human members of the camp. Kate suspected that Lorena's unease stemmed from Belle's absence, as any disruption to their nightly routine tended to unsettle her.

With Belle on her mind, Kate couldn't shake the thoughts of Arthur and the conversation they had shared before he departed. Though Dutch and Micah had returned to camp hours ago, Arthur was conspicuously absent. Kate brushed aside her worries for the time being, reminding herself that Arthur often sought solace away from camp. However, he never failed to return by dinner, and Kate found herself eagerly anticipating his return, awaiting to hear about the outcome of the supposed parley.

As the night wore on and Arthur's absence stretched into the hours after dinner, the seeds of doubt began to sprout in the back of Kate's mind. She couldn't shake the feeling of unease, her worry growing with each passing minute. Arthur was never one to linger without reason, especially not when the job was risky.

With a worried brow, Kate contemplated seeking out Dutch for answers. Perhaps Arthur had mentioned something about his whereabouts before he left. It wouldn't be the first time he had set out on one task only to find himself entangled in another. Determination spurred her forward as she made her way over to Dutch's tent, the crackling of the fire and the gentle lapping of water providing a somber soundtrack to her troubled thoughts.

To her surprise, Dutch was nowhere to be found, replaced instead by Molly, sitting quietly under the warm glow of an oil lamp, her pen scratching across paper. Kate hesitated, unsure of how to interrupt her at such a late hour. Molly's dark orange curls framed her face as she looked up, a hint of surprise in her eyes at Kate's unexpected presence.

"Hi Molly," Kate greeted awkwardly, fidgeting with her hands. "I um, I was just wondering if Dutch mentioned anything about Arthur?” Molly looked puzzled at her question. “You know, from the parley with Colm earlier. I haven't seen him return yet."

Her expression softened with sympathy as she processed Kate's inquiry. "No, I'm sorry," she replied gently. "Dutch didn't say anything to me."

With a heavy sigh, Kate nodded, her heart sinking with disappointment. "Oh, I see. Sorry for bothering you."

But before she could turn to leave, Molly offered a small reassurance, sensing Kate's distress. "Arthur's always disappearing," she said softly. "I'm sure he's alright."

Kate forced a small smile, though her worry remained palpable. "So I've learned," she murmured, her thoughts clouded with concern as she retreated into the night.

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Arthur awoke to a relentless pounding pain that felt as though his skull might split in two. Each throb sent waves of agony crashing through his head, leaving him disoriented and gasping for breath. Slowly, he forced his heavy eyelids open, only to be greeted by a swirling mass of black stars dancing before him. The night air was frigid and thick, seeping into his bones as he lay sprawled on the unforgiving ground. Wrists and ankles bound.

As his vision began to clear, he realized he was not nestled safely by the campfire at Clemens Point. No, the harsh reality of his surroundings sent a shiver down his spine. He was alone in the darkness, surrounded by eerie shadows that danced menacingly in the flickering light of a distant campfire. Panic surged within him as he struggled to piece together the events that had led him to this desolate place. The last thing he remembered was a hazy blur of faces and voices, fading into the abyss of his memory.

Fear gnawed at his insides as he fought to push through the fog of confusion that clouded his mind. Had he been ambushed? Kidnapped?

The memory of the parlay with Colm played like a haunting melody in Arthur's mind. He could feel the weight of his rifle against his chest as he lay hidden in the tall grass, his breath shallow with anticipation. The tension in the air was palpable as Dutch and Colm exchanged terse words, the promise of peace slipping through their fingers like sand. Arthur's jaw clenched as he watched the failed negotiation unfold before him, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to act if things took a turn for the worse.

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next. As Colm turned to leave, his gaze seemed to linger on Arthur with a chilling intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. Before he could react, the world spun violently as a blinding pain erupted in his head, the sickening crunch of bone meeting metal echoing in his ears. Darkness swallowed him whole as he succumbed to the ground, the last thing he saw were the menacing silhouettes of his assailants looming over him like specters of death.

Arthur's mind swam in a turbulent sea of pain and confusion, each wave crashing against the shores of his consciousness with merciless force. The memories of being hoisted onto the back of a horse, his body dangling limply over the beast's flank, stirred a sickening cocktail of nausea and disorientation within him. The rhythmic bounce of the horse's gait only served to intensify his queasiness, threatening to unleash the contents of his roiling stomach onto the unforgiving ground below.

In the midst of his torment, a grim irony dawned on him like a blink in the night. The sensation of being transported as prey, his captors seemingly relishing in his helplessness, echoed the plight of those he had pursued relentlessly in his own chase as a bounty hunter. It was a bitter realization, one that clawed at the fringes of his consciousness as he struggled to maintain his tenuous grip on reality. That must be it, Arthur thought to himself. He chalked it up to be a group of bounty hunters, looking to turn in his head for the $5000.

As consciousness ebbed and flowed like the tide, Arthur's senses gradually sharpened, revealing the harsh reality of his captivity. With painstaking effort, he managed to pry his leaden eyelids open, his vision obscured by a haze of pain and exhaustion. Through the murky veil that shrouded his perception, he discerned the silhouettes of his captors seated by a crackling fire, their voices a distant murmur in the vast expanse of his disoriented mind. With a grunt of exertion, he attempted to shift his weight, the world tilting dangerously on its axis with each agonizing movement.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest as he dragged his body across the unforgiving earth, the coarse ground tearing at his skin with each agonizing inch. His bound hands clawed desperately at the soil, fingers digging into the earth as if grasping for a lifeline in the depths of despair. Every movement sent waves of searing pain coursing through his battered frame, a relentless reminder of the brutality he had endured. If he could just reach the horses, he could escape.

In the dim glow of the campfire, the shadows danced like demons, casting sinister shapes upon the ground as Arthur's tormentors remained oblivious to his silent struggle. With every labored breath, he willed himself forward, his mind consumed by a singular purpose: escape. The rhythmic cadence of his groans mingled with the hushed whispers of the night, a haunting symphony of suffering that echoed through the darkness.

But as Arthur's faltering movements drew the attention of his captors, the weight of their scrutiny bore down upon him like a suffocating shroud. The sudden cessation of their conversation sent a chill down his spine, the air thick with anticipation as their gazes fixed upon his trembling form.

In the eerie silence that followed, the voice of a young Irishman pierced the night like a dagger, his words laced with contempt and malice. “Well ye just gonna sit there and let the bastard git away?”

"Calm down, Nolan, he ain’t goin’ nowhere," came a voice, tinged with a cold indifference that sent shivers down Arthur's spine. He heard the heavy thud of boots against the earth as one of his captors rose to his feet and approached.

"Well evening, sugar," the man sneered, his voice dripping with disdain as he loomed over Arthur's broken form. "You ain’t dead yet, is you?" With a cruel shove of his boot, Arthur was forced onto his back, the impact sending shockwaves of pain radiating through his broken body.

The man chuckled darkly, relishing in the sight of Arthur's mangled visage. The bruises on his face had blossomed into grotesque shades of purple, his features marred by cuts and dried blood. "F-fuck you," Arthur managed to spit out, his voice hoarse amidst the agony that consumed him.

The man merely tsked in response, his amusement palpable as he delivered another vicious blow, his boot connecting with Arthur's ribs with brutal force. As Arthur curled in on himself like a child, gasping for air through the haze of pain, he realized with a sinking heart that his torment was far from over.

In the darkness, Arthur's fingers scrabbled desperately in the earth, seeking refuge in the jagged contours of the rocky terrain. If he could just grab something, anything. Even a small rock could be deadly in his hands. But his efforts were swiftly thwarted by the cruel descent of a heavy foot, grinding mercilessly into his hand. The bone-chilling crunch of his fingers being crushed beneath the merciless weight elicited a primal cry of agony from deep within his chest, muffled by the suffocating grip of pain.

Nolan's voice returned, dripping with sadistic anticipation, cut through the night like a blade. "Once Colm gets his hands on him, we're gonna be free as birds," he gloated, as if reveling in Arthur's torment was the key to their liberation.

The mention of Colm sent a wave of fear down Arthur's back, his thoughts a murky whirlpool of anguish and bewilderment. Through gritted teeth, he fought to rise again, a glimmer of defiance flickering in his eyes as he attempted to leverage himself against the unforgiving ground.

Above him, the voices of his captors continued their sinister discourse, the weight of their words heavy with ominous implications. "Are we really turning them into the law? If it were up to me I’d say he ain’t worth the risk," the one closest to him questioned, his skepticism palpable in the darkness.

But Nolan's response offered little solace. "Quit bein' stupid, Connor. That's his plan, remember?"

"Do you really think he gives two shits about this washed-up cowboy?" Connor's voice dripped with disdain, his words laced with a venomous edge.

The irritation in his tone was palpable as he continued, "Colm says he knows how to play Van der Linde. Once he realizes we have him, his whole posse will fall right into his trap."

Arthur knelt in the dirt, his body trembling with a mixture of pain and fear. With a herculean effort, he pushed himself to his feet, each movement an agonizing battle against the relentless grip of gravity. Stumbling forward, he fought to maintain his balance, his vision swimming with dizziness. Desperation fueled his every step as he clumsily veered away, a fleeting moment of hope igniting within him as he drew nearer to the horses. If he could just reach one...

But his hope was shattered in an instant as a bullet tore through his ankle, sending searing waves of pain coursing through his shattered limb. With a gut-wrenching cry, he crumpled to the ground, his world engulfed in a haze of excruciating agony. Blood pooled beneath him as his legs quivered with adrenaline, a futile attempt to numb the relentless torment that consumed him. Gasping for air, he rolled onto his side, his breaths ragged with panic as he struggled to suppress the rising tide of agony threatening to overwhelm him. Tears threatened to spill down his blood stain cheeks.

As he lifted his gaze, he was met with the sight of the two men looming over him, their faces twisted with sadistic amusement. The one who had fired the shot let out a cruel laugh, his eyes alight with malice. "Did I kill ya yet?" he taunted, the callousness of his words echoing through the darkness like a death knell.

Arthur's attempts to speak were drowned out by a guttural moan, a haunting sound that echoed through the desolate night air, mirroring the agony that gripped his shattered body. Fear and desperation clawed at the edges of his consciousness, threatening to engulf him in its heavy embrace.

“Let’s see if you survive this,” Connor’s voice taunted, each word full of tormented amusement, a cruel promise of further suffering.

A chill swept over Arthur as he felt the icy touch of metal against his left shoulder, the unmistakable sensation of the barrel of a rifle pressed against his flesh. With a sharp intake of breath, he braced himself for the inevitable onslaught, his heart hammering in his chest like a thunderous drumbeat.

Searing pain ripped through him as a bullet tore through his shoulder, sending shockwaves of anguish coursing through his already beaten form. The world around him blurred into a hazy fog of suffering, his consciousness slipping away into the abyss as darkness swallowed him whole.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

The passage of time seemed as fleeting as the shifting clouds above, their transient dance across the sky mirroring Kate's restless thoughts. With each passing moment, her imagination wove a tapestry of dread, painting vivid scenes of tragedy. For every dire scenario she conjured, she grasped desperately for the slender threads of reason, clinging to the hope that Arthur's absence was merely a benign twist of fate. Dutch would have surely said something had the parley gone awry.

But like a persistent tick embedded deep within her psyche, the gnawing sense of unease persisted, burrowing beneath her skin and refusing to be ignored. Despite her best efforts to quell the rising tide of fear, it lingered in the recesses of her mind, a haunting whisper of uncertainty.

Engulfed in a flurry of chores, Kate sought refuge in the mundane tasks of camp life, each action a feeble attempt to distract herself from the relentless thunder of worry. Yet, amidst the hustle and bustle, the absence of Arthur's reassuring presence weighed heavily upon her, a silent void that echoed with unanswered questions.

Yearning for solace, Kate longed to confide in someone who understood. With Sadie and Charles occupied elsewhere, she found herself adrift in a sea of unease, her anxious pacing along the shoreline of the camp a silent testament to her inner turmoil.

Beside her, Lorena mirrored her distress, her restless movements a silent plea for communication. Kate had to hitch her to a tree just shy of her tent, or else she feared Lorena would take off. Chasing, or running from something; Kate did not know.

As the night stretched on, their shared distress only deepened, casting a shadow over their sleepless vigil. In the quiet darkness, they stood as silent sentinels, bound together by the unspoken fear that lurked just beyond the edge of sight.

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In the embrace of unconsciousness, Arthur drifted through the realm of dreams. The reality of his situation melted away like morning mist beneath the sun's gentle caress. In his coma, he found himself in a fantasy of domestic bliss, woven from the threads of his deepest longings and desires.

He stood within the sturdy confines of a wooden cabin, its walls shielding him from the world outside. With each breath, the scent of crackling firewood mingled with the sweet melody of Kate's voice, a symphony that filled the air with her warmth and comfort.

Looking around he saw tables and chairs worn by the effects of time, a home filled with comfort.

Summoned by the will of his imagination, Kate stood before him with her back turned. A vision of radiant beauty bathed in the golden hour of the sun. Her silhouette cast against the rustic walls, each line and curve a testament to her grace, her beauty. It framed her like a shining halo. In that moment, she was not just a woman, but an angel sent to soothe his weary soul.

His own corner of personal heaven. Perhaps whatever God watched over him truly was a forgiving one.

With each step forward, Arthur felt the weight of the world fall away, replaced by a sense of peace and contentment that he had waited his whole life for. With arms outstretched, he enveloped her in a tender embrace, the warmth of her body a balm against the chill of his uncertainty.

With whispered words of love and adoration, he pressed his lips to her cheek, each kiss a vow of eternal affection. Her giggle felt like warm honey against his skin. In that fleeting moment, everything else ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them, bound together in his dreams.

Amidst his tender kisses, a symphony of innocence pierced the air—a soft patter of footsteps. Arthur turned, his heart aching, to find a shadow of a child standing in the doorway, a small horse plush nestled in his tiny grasp. Wordlessly, the child reached out, beckoning to be cradled in the safety of Arthur's embrace.

As he lifted the boy into his arms, a sudden chill seeped into his soul. His gaze drifted over the features of the boy's face, and realized it was son Isaac.

No, no this can't be – He recoiled slightly at the icy feeling that lingered on his skin like a ghostly touch.

Sorrow and confusion washed over him. He looked back to Kate for some explanation, and he froze. In her place stood another woman, a face from a past life. A life he fought to keep buried. Her apparition draped in the hues of bygone days.

The sunlight waned, its golden tendrils fading into shadows that enveloped the cabin in an embrace as cold as death itself. And there, amidst the encroaching darkness, Arthur's worst fears took shape—a vision of Eliza.

Arthur felt like a fool to think he could ever be given a chance at redemption. Heaven would always be beyond his reach.

Eliza's porcelain skin bore the scars of untold suffering, her once-vibrant eyes now veiled in a haunting white mist. A silent scream echoed in the depths of Arthur's soul as he beheld the gaping wound that marred her chest—a stark reminder of the violence that had torn her from this earth. In her last act as a mother to shield her child from the blow; his child.

With a heavy heart and trembling hands, Arthur attempted to retreat from the weight of his sin before him. The grief bearing down upon him like a heavy wet blanket. Cold, damp, and suffocating.

As he cradled the lifeless form of the child in his arms, he could only utter a prayer—a whispered plea for forgiveness in the face of a tragedy too cruel to bear.

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Eliza. I should have been there. I'm sorry.

Eliza stood before him, undead. Her lips parted in a voiceless plea, a mournful wisp of breath that stirred the stagnant air. With hesitant steps, she approached Arthur, her gaze a haunting orchestra of longing, despair and pain.

Arthur recoiled from her embrace, his heart aflutter with a tempest of emotions. Panic gnawed at his senses, the oppressive burden of the cabin's walls bearing down upon him like the burden of his guilt.

Each of her steps echoed through the old cabin; her cabin. Once a warm bustling home, that he only visited in fleeting moments. Avoiding his duty as a father at almost any cost.

Beneath his trembling feet, the floor lay slick with the crimson tide of regret, a macabre testament to the lives lost in the wake of his relentless pursuit of hatred and vengeance. Amongst the faceless of the fallen, he glimpsed the lifeless forms of Eliza and Isaac, their silent reproach a damning indictment of his failures. And yet, amidst the sea of carnage, Eliza stood undaunted, a haunting reminder of the family he had forsaken and the wounds that could never truly heal.

I was a fool Eliza, a goddamn fool. I know I shoulda been there for you and the boy. And I suffer for it everyday.

With Eliza drawing near, Arthur found himself cornered, his back pressed against the hard wall. Yet, even in the throes of despair, he clung to Isaac's lifeless form, as if his embrace could breathe warmth back into the cold hands of death.

As Eliza's lips parted, a chilling sound pierced the silence—a twisted echo of Arthur's own voice, a haunting refrain of his darkest truths laid bare. Each word echoed through the chamber of his soul, a relentless cascade of self-condemnation that tore at the fabric of his being.

"I was born sick, unloved, and unwanted. But I am the master of my own torment," his voice whispered, a lamentation of a soul consumed by the flames of its own creation. "A prisoner of my own choosing, condemned to walk the path of the damned. I am just a vessel of violence, a predator in the shadows, thirsting for the blood of innocence."

In that moment, Arthur faced the reflection of his own sins, mirrored in the eyes of the woman he had failed, and the child he had forsaken. And as the weight of his remorse threatened to engulf him, he knew that redemption lay beyond the grasp of a soul consumed by the darkness within.

Arthur shut his eyes tight. Grief flooded him in waves that threatened to escape his eyes in hot tears. This must be a nightmare. He prayed it was only a nightmare. Unsure how he would deal with himself if this was his eternal damnation. Facing his past was a worse fate than death.

Eliza continued, as he steeled himself, her sound began to grow louder in his ears.

“I am not worthy of a woman such as Kate. I am a shadow in her light. I am like a cancer that thrives on her warmth. With every touch, I know I will take a piece of her body, mind, and soul with me as I am dragged into the darkest pits of hell. As heaven is not fit to house a man like me, and my love will never be enough.

But I fear I will do it all again anyways.”

—

Arthur awakens with a groan, the sound distant and detached, ripped from a place within him he cannot recognize. At first, there is no pain, just a dreamlike fog enveloping his senses. Slowly, he peels open his heavy eyelids, feeling the weight of them threatening to fall from his skull. As the darkness begins to clear, he discerns the faint glimmer of light and the outlines of two figures. Blinking against the sliver of sun filtering through the cellar door above the stairs, he realizes where he is.

The voices of men reach his ears, and suddenly, pain floods through him like a relentless tide. A weeping moan escapes his lips as consciousness slowly returns. His vision is blurred, everything tinted red with blood. Each beat of his heart sends a throbbing ache through his head. His toes barely graze the ground beneath him as his wrists are bound above his head, a tight knot cutting off circulation to his arms. Suspended from the ceiling, his left arm remains numb, unable to twitch even his fingertips. Waves of burning sensation radiate from the rifle wound in his shoulder, coursing through his body like white flames.

Arthur strains to look down at himself, his neck protesting against the movement. Panic shrieks through his mind as he takes in the sight. Clad only in his red union suit, the buttons ripped down to his underwear, his stomach laid bare like a gruesome canvas. Yellow and purple bruises mar his skin, mingled with shallow cuts and the cruel imprints of cigarette burns.

Turning his head to the left, he gazes at what remains of his shoulder. His undershirt peeled back, sticky with blood and soot, the fabric singed at the edges. His eyes fall upon a black crater, a mutilating wound that sends waves of pain unlike anything he’s ever known coursing through his body. His side is soaked in his own blood, thick and cold, a chilling testament to the violence inflicted upon him.

Time becomes a blur as he hangs there, suspended in agony. He doesn’t know if it has been hours or days since he was captured. Fear gnaws at him, the weight of his own body threatening to tear his arm from its socket. Agony drowns out any coherent thoughts, burning hot and filling every pore of his body. Arthur mewls pathetically as he tries to move, his feeble attempts to escape futile against the overwhelming pain.

“Fuck, I think the ugly bastards finally awake.” Arthur was yanked from his haze by the voice of the young Irish O’Driscoll. He fixed his eyes on where they sat at a dusty and broken wooden table.

"Shit, and I was just gettin’ to the good part!" Connor's voice dripped with sarcasm as he tossed a leather book onto the table.

Sickened, Arthur felt the urge to curl into a hole and rot. He recognized that old binding anywhere—they were reading his journal. His most personal inner thoughts laid bare for these boys who hunted him, mercilessly beat him, to know the depths of his very soul. Every guilt, shame, love, and loss spilled across those pages. His darkest, most tormented thoughts exposed to the cruel light of day.

Arthur's spirit felt raped in a way it never had before.

Connor rose to his feet, sauntering over. Arthur could only stare at his legs, unable to lift his head to meet his eyes. Suddenly, the man pulled out a knife, and Arthur braced for the sting. But instead, he felt the rope above his wrists being cut. In the next instant, his head collided with the ground as his heavy body collapsed hard. Arthur coughed as the air was knocked from his lungs, his whines sounding wet and pained.

Nolan's voice cut through the air, dripping with snark, "Ya think that Kate girl will show up with the rest of 'em?"

"I'm counting on it. Colm might even let us keep her," came the dark chuckle of his companion. "As a reward."

A guttural noise clawed its way from Arthur's throat, a desperate denial. “Nghh-no.”

A flirtatious whistle pierced the tension as Nolan flipped through pages upon pages of drawings of Kate. "Christ, this fella's obsessed with her. You think he's some kind of pervert?" He tore one of the sketches from the journal, holding it up to the light. "She's a pretty thing. I bet she screams real nice too," he added wickedly before pocketing the paper.

Arthur's heart hammered in his chest. Would Kate arrive with Dutch and the gang? Was she walking into danger? He writhed on the ground, grappling with the dirt beneath him, consumed by the need to warn or stop them.

The conversation between his captors resurfaced in his mind. "When the law shows up, they'll fall right into his trap," they had said. Colm had orchestrated it all.

Images of Kate flashed through his mind, her face contorted in pain. He envisioned the horrors they might inflict upon her, and the realization struck him like a hammer blow. It would be all his fault, his negligence costing yet another innocent woman her life.

With a desperate cry, he attempted to rise from the ground, his belly scraping against the dirt. But before he could make any progress, a thick-heeled boot pinned him down, forcing the air from his lungs in a desperate squeal.

"You have something to say, piggy?" Connor spat, pressing down on Arthur's back.

"I-I'll kill,” he huffed, “y-ou," Arthur managed, his breaths coming in wheezes.

Connor chuckled, dismissing Arthur's threat with a wave of his hand as if he were a child. "What do you wanna do with 'em, Nolan?" he asked, ignoring Arthur's gasping for air.

Nolan rose from his seat, looming over Arthur's broken body. "Colm won't be here till tomorrow. I say we have some fun with 'em. Long as he don't die."

The pressure on Arthur's chest eased, allowing him to suck in a dusty breath that sent him into a fit of coughs. Before he could fully recover, he was yanked up by fistfuls of his hair, eliciting a wince of pain. He tried to grab the man's arm in vain.

From behind, the other man reached around, grabbing Arthur's bound wrists. A scream tore through him as his shattered shoulder was wrenched backwards. His ripped union suit slid off his shoulders, exposing his vulnerable chest. Kneeling before his captors, he felt utterly helpless.

"Mmf-st..stop.." he pleaded, his voice raw and dry.

"Aww, I think piggy's a little thirsty," Nolan taunted, his voice dripping with malice.

His lips were suddenly greeted by the cold, unyielding touch of a bottle. The overpowering scent of whiskey flooded his senses, drowning out any rational thought. Before he could even think to hold his breath, the fiery liquid surged down his throat, choking him.

Gagging and coughing, Arthur attempted to move his head, to resist the forceful flow of alcohol, but it was futile. One hand gripped his hair, holding his head in place, while the other shoved the bottle deeper into his mouth.

With no other choice, Arthur was forced to swallow. He sputtered and struggled to keep up with the relentless stream, the liquor dribbling down the sides of his mouth and soaking his chest. His feeble attempts to resist earned him a punishing blow to the gut.

"Quit wastin' it, I'm bein' generous!" the man boasted callously, releasing his hold on Arthur's head, leaving him to collapse under the weight of the pain. Arthur coughed violently, his nose burning with each harsh exhale, the sound of his hacking mingling with the haunting laughter that filled the room.

"Guess the fella can't handle his booze," the Irishman taunted, bending down to Arthur's level.

Arthur groaned, his body wracked with agony as he struggled to alleviate the pressure on his throbbing shoulder. The pain, coupled with the fiery sensation in his belly, left his chest heaving with each labored breath. Nausea churned in his gut like a relentless storm, threatening to overwhelm him. With a desperate effort, he managed to rise slightly from the ground, the weight on his knees straining his body. As he lurched forward, a warm sensation crept up his throat, signaling the imminent release of his body's revolt.

"Hurl on me and I’ll kill you right now, big fella," the man warned before delivering a punishing blow to Arthur's stomach with his boot.

A strangled groan tore from Arthur's throat, raw and primal, like the cry of a wounded beast. He couldn't control it—his stomach convulsed, expelling its contents onto the filthy floor and down his chest. Acid scorched his throat and nose as he desperately turned his head to avoid drowning in his own vomit.

Violent tremors wracked his body as he fought to stay upright, struggling to draw in breaths amidst the agony. Hot tears and saliva mingled on his chin, his chest heaving with the effort to gulp down air. He wanted to plead for mercy, but he felt utterly powerless already.

The O'Driscolls reacted with disgust, their chorus of revulsion echoing in the dimly lit cellar. One of them approached Arthur, leaning in close to his ear with contempt dripping from his voice. "Filthy pig," he spat, his saliva landing on Arthur's face. "You're going back to sleep."

A heavy hand seized Arthur's neck, forcefully pressing his head into the solid ground, into his own sickening mess. His vision blurred, the world spinning as darkness enveloped him once more.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

As the sun dipped on the horizon of the third day, Kate's resolve solidified. She could no longer abide by the passive whispers of concern that lingered unspoken in the shadows. Arthur's absence loomed like a gaping wound, and she refused to tiptoe around it any longer.

Seated alone by the fire, she felt the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon her. The flames flickered, casting dancing light upon her face as her mind whirled with plans. No longer content to wait for answers that may never come, she made a silent vow to look for Arthur herself.

With each passing moment, her determination grew stronger. Nobody in camp seemed to question Arthur’s absence, and it drove Kate mad. Had no one else thought the parley was suspicious? No one questioned Dutch on what happened? There were missing pieces to all of this, and Arthur left the biggest hole in her puzzle.

With a resolute nod, Kate rose to her feet. She knew she couldn't rely on anyone else for this task. Charles and Sadie were miles away on their own assignments, leaving her to face this alone. Setting her sights on Rhodes, she vowed to start her search at the sheriff station

As Kate turned, she collided with Molly O’Shea, the unexpected impact nearly causing her to stumble backward. "Oh! Sorry, Molly, I didn’t hear you walk over," she apologized quickly, her movements indicating her intention to go around her.

Molly's eyes held an air of unease that mirrored Kate's own for a fleeting moment. Sensing the gravity of the situation, Kate paused, her concern evident in her voice as she spoke. "Is everything okay?"

“I heard Dutch say last night that Arthur was supposed to meet them after the parley,” Molly blurted hastily, her thick Irish accent hushed with urgency. “But he didn’t.”

Kate felt the heat drain from her body as her mind raced to process Molly’s words. She realized with a sinking feeling that it wasn't Dutch who was in danger—it was Arthur.

Struggling to find the right words to convey her gratitude, Kate's mouth went dry as she attempted to speak. Before she could utter a single word, Molly gently grasped Kate's wrist, her touch imbued with a sense of urgency. “I snuck a look at Dutch’s map. The meeting was held between the twin stacks path. Arthur was supposed to be on the slope facing Emerald Ranch,” Molly whispered, her words echoing in Kate's mind as she repeated the location to herself.

"I-I don’t know how to thank you, Molly–" Kate stuttered, her voice trembling with emotion.

“Good luck, Kate,” Molly whispered in response, before walking away as if their encounter had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Without another word, Kate hastened toward her horse, Lorena, whose restless movements reflected her own unease. As she mounted her steed, Lorena reared up, pulling at the reins with a sense of urgency. Before Kate could fully settle into the saddle, her mare was already in motion, galloping like a bolt of lightning out of Clemens Point and down the winding path that led to the fateful meeting spot where she and Arthur had first crossed paths.

Molly returned to her seat in the solitude of the empty tent she shared with Dutch. Cooling herself with a paper fan. She had been a silent witness to Kate’s nightly ritual of pacing the shoreline, her silhouette framed by the moonlight reflected off the water. Each night Arthur had not returned Molly felt a pang of empathy. She knew all too well the ache of devotion, mixed with fear. When the one you love vanishes without a trace.

It resonated within her own heart, the longing echoed in her soul. Her thoughts drifted to Dutch, the man she loved dear. Though he had not disappeared from her physically. Each day she felt him slipping away, morphing into a man she did not recognize. A ghost of the person she once knew. She prayed her information had spared Kate from that kind of torment.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Nothing I do is ever good. Nothing I do is ever good enough.

Time becomes a blur for Arthur, lost in the dark confines of the cellar-turned-prison. Pain surges through him in relentless waves, crashing against the shores of his consciousness like a violent storm.

When he awakens, it's with a sharp intake of breath, his vision swimming in a haze of stars and swirling shades of red and brown. He realizes he's been moved, his captors stringing him up by his ankles while he was lost in silent, dark unconsciousness. His head hangs just a few feet from the ground, blood trickling down his legs once more, the shackles around his ankles digging deep into his flesh under the impossible weight of his own body.

Gazing up at his toes, now swollen and blackened, Arthur feels a sickening dread grip his heart. The blood pounding in his head threatens to burst his eyes from their sockets, forcing him to tightly shut them against the unbearable pressure.

Every inch of his body screams with agony, a symphony of torment orchestrated by his captors' relentless brutality. He feels broken, bruised, numb; yet aflame with searing pain.

Amidst the haze of suffering, distant voices drift in and out of his awareness. Arthur longs to retreat into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness, or perhaps even embrace the release of death, anything to escape the unending torment.

But he is not granted reprieve. Unseen hands assault him, tearing at his clothing and underwear until he is completely exposed to the biting chill of the cellar air. Violated, helpless, he endures their cruel touch, their probing fingers exacerbating his wounds, their blows landing like thunder against his battered form.

Silenced by the agony of his soul, Arthur can only shudder and gasp, his protests drowned out by the symphony of his own suffering.

The cruel banter of his captors cuts through the stale air of the cellar, their words dripping with venomous amusement. "Look at the size of this fella," the Irishman sneers, his tone thick with bitterness. "No wonder that Kate lass is stickin' around. Probably only usin' 'em for his cock."

Their laughter echoes like the cawing of carrion birds, feasting on the remains of a fallen prey. "Well, he's got three holes now," another voice chimes in, laced with malicious glee. "I reckon that mouth of his is soft and warm like her cunt."

Arthur's stomach churns with revulsion and fear as he listens to their degrading remarks, feeling utterly defenseless in the face of their cruelty. The sound of shuffling fabric signals Nolan's approach, his presence looming over Arthur like a shadow in the darkness. His hips suddenly inches from Arthur’s face.

In a moment of desperate reprieve, Arthur's consciousness fades into blackness, a merciful respite from the fear, shame, and agony that threaten to consume him. When he awakens, it's with a choking cough, his own sickness coating his face.

With a trembling hand, he wipes away the vile residue, his body racked with pain and exhaustion. The cellar's frigid air hangs heavy with the stench of vomit and decay, suffocating him further as he struggles to draw breath.

Each inhale is a laborious effort, his lungs rattling with the strain as they gasp for oxygen. With every passing moment, the weight of his battered body grows heavier, his limbs hanging limp and lifeless in the oppressive darkness.

As the cellar door groans open, Arthur stirs from his fitful slumber, the sound of three distinct sets of footsteps descending the stairs sends a chill down his spine.

"Arthur Morgan," a familiar cloying voice, slices through the darkness like a dagger. Arthur winces as the figure steps into the flickering candlelight, casting ominous shadows against the damp stone walls. Unmistakably Colm O'Driscoll.

A wave of dread washes over Arthur, and he recoils instinctively as Colm draws near. "How's that wound treating you?" His words drip with false concern, a mockery of compassion.

Coughing weakly, blood staining his parched lips, Arthur manages to murmur, "c-can’t…fe-feel it any…more," his voice trembling with pain and despair.

Colm leans in, his expression twisted with disdain as he inspects Arthur's festering wound. The skin was turning black and yellow. The putrid odor assaults his senses, and Colm's lip curls in disgust. "You ain't allowed to die yet," he sneers. "I wanna see the look in your eyes when Van der Linde and that so-called family of his gets a bullet to the skull."

Arthur croaks, “D-dutch…is-is he…” His mind whirls with thoughts of Dutch, Hosea, and Kate, their faces blurred by anguish and uncertainty. He struggles to recall why he's here, and if his friends are even still alive. Perhaps they've already fallen into his trap, and he's the lone survivor, kept alive for Colm's sadistic pleasure.

Colm grips Arthur's hair tightly, yanking him closer with a cruel smirk etched upon his ugly scarred face. "Could've saved yourself a lot of pain if you'd worked for me," he taunts. "We could've been partners in crime, making real money together."

Rage surged through Arthur like a wildfire, fueled by a defiance that refused to be extinguished. It was never about the money to him. "I-I'll fu-fucking…k-ill y-you," he spat, the words punctuated by a wad of blood and mucus aimed at Colm's face.

Colm's features contorted with fury as he jerked Arthur's head back, sending him swinging on his shackles. Dazed and nauseous, Arthur felt the impact of a heavy fist against his stomach. A sickening warmth spread down his body, mingling with the stench of blood and vomit. He realized with horror, the fullness of his bladder now emptying uncontrollably, adding another layer of humiliation to his degradation.

Drenched in his own bodily fluids, Arthur trembled with fear. "P-please," he choked out, his voice a desperate plea for mercy. "Just…l-le…let me go—" His words dissolved into sobs, his pride shattered by the harsh reality of his helplessness. He knew he sounded pitiful, weak, but in this moment, all he could do was beg for the slightest glimmer of hope, completely at the mercy of Colm's tenacious grip.

"The way I see it," Colm continued, his voice flowing with disdain, "the law gets Van der Linde, and they forget all about little ole me." He taunted, his filthy fingernails tracing over Arthur's bruised abdomen, descending to the tangled hair below his navel.

Arthur only whimpered in response, his body squirming and contorting under Colm's touch, indifferent to the pain shooting through his ankles. He kicked his feet desperately, not caring if he ripped the flesh. A futile attempt to escape, accompanied by the distant snickers of the other O'Driscolls.

"We grab all of ya, let the law have their fun…then we disappear. Leaving you here to rot in your own shit," Colm continued, his grin sinister as he yanked a fistful of hair, as if trying to tear it from the follicle. Arthur's breath hitched sharply, coughing up more blood onto his lips.

"Ngh..s-stop…please," he pleaded, his voice strained with anguish.

As the fog in his mind began to clear, Arthur realized the gravity of Colm's words. He had been kidnapped not for ransom, but as bait for Dutch and the gang. They would come charging to his rescue, only to fall into a trap orchestrated by Colm, sealing their own fates.

"You're his right hand man, Arthur, oh he would be so mad if he knew what I'm gonna do to you." Colm's laughter echoed through the cellar, cruel and triumphant, as he used his grip on Arthur's hair to spin him wildly. He thrashed in agony, his cries drowned out by the darkness.

Abruptly, Colm halted the motion, leaving Arthur's head spinning with dizziness. In the haze of his vision, he caught sight of Colm retrieving a small knife from his pocket.

“Get m’f-fuck…away fr’m-me!” He mustered, his voice broken like a beaten dog.

Before he could even brace himself for the inevitable blow, Colm thrust the knife into his belly.

The scream that tore from Arthur's lips was primal, guttural, a symphony of agony that reverberated through the cellar. Like the sound of an animal being burned alive. Breathing heavily through his teeth, the pain engulfed him. Splintering inwards. A relentless torrent that seared his insides with a fiery intensity. Blood and bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him with their suffocating heat.

Colm stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans with casual indifference, as if he had just completed the mundane task of skinning an animal. "We'll come wake ya when the party arrives," he spat, his voice laced with contempt. "Make sure ya get a front row seat for the show."

With heavy footsteps, Colm and his companions departed, leaving behind an oppressive silence that enveloped Arthur like a shroud. Alone in the darkness, his sobs mingled with the echo of his labored breathing, his fragile existence sustained only by the stubborn beat of his heart.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

In the waning light, between the towering monoliths of the twin stacks, Kate stood alone, her gaze fixed westward toward Emerald Ranch. The memories of their first meeting still vivid in her mind. Every step forward felt heavy with dread, each breath drawn laden with uncertainty. She braced herself for the task ahead, steeling her resolve to confront the unknown.

Amidst the barren expanse, an object caught her eye—a solitary figure in the dust. Arthur's hat, a weathered relic of countless battles, lay abandoned upon the ground. Its frayed edges whispered tales of long sunny days on the prairie, and cold rainy evenings as it shielded his face from the oncoming storm. A silent testament to his indomitable spirit.

As she reached out to retrieve the hat, a surge of anguish washed over her. Arthur's absence echoed through the empty landscape, like a gaping void in her heart. Yet the hat remained, a tangible reminder of his presence.

Kate brought the hat to her face, inhaling deeply the familiar scent of pine and musk mingled with campfire smoke. Arthur’s smell. A familiar scent she had begun to associate with home. Tears threatened to blur her vision as she clung to the cherished memento, her heart heavy with worry and longing. It was one piece of himself Arthur would never leave behind, not if he could help it. His gamblers hat was an extension of himself.

Amidst the intruding darkness, she traced the crimson stains upon the rocky earth, following their trail with a sinking heart. Three sets of tracks emerged from the shadows, leading northward past the stacks—a grim indication of Arthur's fate.

Kate knew at that moment the law didn’t have him. The closest sheriff station was back east. Had he been arrested, news of his capture would be in the paper by now. The gang would have already planned to break him out. Before he would be hanged for his transgressions, his death a spectacle for the crowd. Like his life was nothing more than a circus act.

Kate was no stranger to the harsh realities of the world, she had once wielded the blade herself, inflicting torment upon any who dared challenge her. If Colm's men had taken Arthur, she knew they would subject him to unspeakable horrors. Time was slipping away, and with each passing moment, his fate was slipping through her fingers.

Climbing back in the saddle she took off, following the tracks as the sun set to the west of her, casting a deep shadow onto the land. Like a bird in graceful flight, its silhouette gliding over the sun, the darkness mirrored its ghostly journey on the earth below.

"I'm coming, Arthur," she whispered, her voice carried away with the evening breeze. "Please, don't give up on me."

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Hours later, Arthur stirred from the depths of sleep, his body an orchestra of aches and throbs. Yet amidst the pain, the surge of adrenaline lent clarity to his thoughts. For the first time in an eternity, his mind emerged from the murky depths of fear and uncertainty, guided by an unseen force, a flicker of determination that refused to be extinguished. An arm of support that gently held his heart, and willed it to keep beating.

In the recesses of his consciousness, Kate's presence loomed large, her tender care a distant memory amidst his current turmoil. He recalled the night she had tended to his wounds, her gentle touch and warm words a soothing balm to his battered soul. Oh, how he yearned to hold her, to envelop her in an embrace and bask in the warmth of her presence.

Her words that night, soft as a whispered prayer, stirred a tempest within him. Regret washed over Arthur like a relentless tide, for not seizing the moment to bare his soul, to taste the sweetness of her lips in that fleeting moment. A vulnerability, veiled by fear, held him captive, yet now he feared the chance might never come again.

"I'm always here if you need a hand," her offer, a mere echo in the vast expanse of their shared moments, resonated deep within his being. Beyond the surface, he understood its true meaning, Kate had shown him time and time again that she was patient and resilient. She had already pledged unwavering loyalty, a vow to stand steadfast by his side.

With certainty, he envisioned Kate riding alongside Dutch, her fate entwined with theirs, destined for a violent end. He could not bear the thought. It was like barbed wire around his throat. Arthur couldn’t allow that. He was the protector, he was the strong arm. He would shield her from every blow if it ever came to it.

He would crawl home on his hands and knees if he had to, back to the gang, back to the closest thing he had to family. Back to her.

In the dim candlelit room, Arthur's senses swam in a haze of crimson. His eyes, heavy as lead, strained against the oppressive darkness. Alone in the cellar, he listened to the distant crackle of a fire and the muffled voices beyond the stone walls. He quickly realized he was alone.

With a groan, he lifted his gaze to his body, bathed in the flickering light. His torn union suit exposed to the chill of the dank air, while the glint of steel protruded from his belly. The knife, a silent tormentor, surrounded by angry, swollen flesh, oozing rivulets of blood like winding red streams.

It was his only chance, a gamble with his own mortality. With a determined resolve, Arthur braced himself and grasped the hilt of the silver dagger. A muffled cry escaped his lips as he wrenched it from his abdomen. A rush of warmth flooded his side, pooling around him in a macabre embrace. As the wine red tide gushed, the world spun around him, threatening to engulf him in an abyss of darkness from which he might never return.

Summoning every ounce of strength, Arthur clenched his teeth and pulled up. With the knife gripped tightly in his good hand, he strained against the weight of his own body, reaching desperately for the lock that bound the shackles to his ankles. Each labored breath expelled blood onto his chest, a stark reminder of his life threatening state.

Years of Dutch’s patient tutelage in lock picking flashed through his mind, a skill honed in moments of leisure now turned to desperate necessity. With a primal cry, Arthur thrust the blade into the lock, his hands trembling with fatigue and adrenaline. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as he wrestled with the unforgiving metal, his fingers numb and unresponsive.

Then, with a sudden, almost miraculous click, the lock yielded to his persistence. The shackles fell away, and Arthur collapsed onto the cold, unforgiving floor, his body trembling with exhaustion. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest, for the sweet embrace of surrender. Yet, even as despair threatened to engulf him, a flicker of determination ignited within his soul. He refused to yield, refused to succumb to the weight of his own despair.

Despite the agony coursing through his body, Arthur mustered the strength to turn himself over, his groan echoing in the dimly lit cellar. The slick floor beneath him bore witness to the blood trail he left in his wake as he reached for his journal and satchel, discarded amidst his own filth.

With determination etched into every line of his beaten weary face, he stretched out his good arm, using the wall for support as he dragged his battered form inch by painstaking inch toward the door. Each movement sent waves of pain rippling through him, threatening to engulf him in darkness. Fueled by an unyielding resolve, he pressed on, driven by an instinctual tug toward freedom. Dragging his knees up each step of the cellar.

He refused to succumb to the pain, pushing himself forward with sheer force of will. Each labored breath threatened to be his last, but he refused to entertain the notion of surrender. This would not be his final chapter, and he would not allow Kate to suffer the same cruel fate. He held out hope that he would see her again, even if it was his final moments he would spare no time in warning her of the threat that loomed just out of reach. Waiting like a snake in the tall grass, ready to strike its unsuspecting victim.

The fools had left the door unlocked, a small oversight that granted Arthur an opportunity. With a grunt, he pushed against the door, surprised by its lightness. In an instant, he was bathed in the cool embrace of the night air, a welcome respite from the stale confines of the cellar. The night air is fresh and crisp, but like a soothing balm against his weakened lungs.

The darkness enveloped him in his embrace as he emerged, the stars above his only witness. In the distance, a flickering campfire cast dancing shadows, accompanied by the murmur of many voices. More of Colm's men lingered nearby, their presence a reminder of the danger that lurked.

Arthur wasted no time, he needed to be quick before they realized he had escaped, frightened by the idea of what they would do to him if they caught him. With caution born of desperation, he lowered himself onto the dew-kissed grass, the sensation offering a fleeting comfort to his battered frame. Every movement was accompanied by a sting of pain as twigs and rocks scraped against his skin, but he persevered, inching his way toward the side of the house.

A sudden scuffle in the dark sent Arthur's heart into a frantic rhythm. He braced himself for danger, muscles tensed for a confrontation that never came. Instead, a soft whinny broke the silence, a familiar sound that stirred a glimmer of hope within him.

Arthur looked up, his vision swirled, but he would recognize that pearl white coat anywhere. Belle. His mare was hitched to a tree just shy of where he had been kept prisoner. With renewed determination, he quickened his pace toward her, each step a struggle against his battered body.

Reaching out to grasp her reins, Arthur was met with unexpected resistance as Belle recoiled, fear evident in her wild eyes. He coaxed her gently, murmuring soothing words as he leaned heavily against the sturdy trunk of the tree. In the dim moonlight, he noticed the dark crimson stains marring her once perfect white fur, a grim reminder of the violence that had unfolded in his absence.

"Oh, my sweet girl… What did they do to you?" Arthur's voice was a tender murmur as he reached out to her, his fingers brushing against her shaken form. Belle trembled before him, her hind legs quivering like fragile branches in a fierce storm. "Shhh, shh. You're alright now…"

Belle's ears twitched nervously in response, but Arthur knew he couldn't linger. The pain pulsating in his side intensified with each passing moment, and the trail of blood he left behind painted a grim picture of his dwindling durability. Summoning the last shreds of his strength, he untied her reins and hoisted himself into the saddle, his movements slow and labored.

Every motion was agony, every breath a struggle against the darkness threatening to consume him. With great effort, he swung his leg over Belle's back, his body hunched over her pristine mane. Arthur held on tightly, the warmth of her presence offering a faint glimmer of comfort amidst the chaos.

As Belle began to move, Arthur rocked gently in the saddle, his body protesting with each jarring step. But there was no time to dwell on pain or weakness. With a surge of determination fueled by fear and longing for freedom, Belle broke into a gallop, carrying Arthur away from the shadows that had haunted them both.

The rush of wind against his face felt like a bittersweet embrace, a fleeting taste of liberty amidst the suffocating grip of captivity. And as the darkness closed in once more, Arthur surrendered to its embrace, his consciousness slipping away like a fading whisper in the night.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate felt like she was staring down death between its eyes.

She had spent hours following the trail, a winding path that seemed to vanish and reappear at will. With the setting sun, darkness enveloped the landscape, making it increasingly difficult to discern the tracks from the myriad of others imprinted upon the earth. The prints of three riders merged seamlessly with those of the countless travelers who had passed this way before, creating a labyrinth of confusion.

Despite the growing sense of desperation gnawing at her heart, Kate refused to succumb to despair. With each passing moment, her pulse quickened with the weight of impending dread, the relentless march of time driving her forward. Each minute stretched into an eternity, a torturous reminder of the urgency of her quest.

Undeterred by the encroaching darkness, Kate retraced her steps, her eyes scanning the ground for any trace that might lead her to Arthur's captors. Determination burned within her, a fierce flame that illuminated the path ahead even as shadows threatened to consume her. She knew that she would search until the first light of dawn if necessary, unwilling to abandon her friend to the mercy of his tormentors.

As if guided by a twisted hand of fate, she stumbled upon a vantage point overlooking a serene waterfall. Bathed in the ethereal glow of the moonlight, a sudden glimmer of white caught her eye amidst the darkness, resembling a fleeting star in the night sky. Squinting against the veil of shadows, she discerned a figure sprawled on the ground below.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as she approached on horseback, the air thick with anticipation. Realization dawned, and with a desperate urgency, Kate flung herself from the saddle and rushed to Arthur's side. His body lay crumpled in the dirt, a haunting sight that sent shivers down her spine.

A surge of panic gripped her, rendering her mind blank as she absorbed the gravity of the situation. It was as if she was staring into the abyss of death itself, uncertainty clouding her thoughts like a turbulent storm. With trembling lungs, she dared to wonder: am I too late?

In a sudden moment of awakening, Arthur emitted a low groan, stirring Kate from her daze. With tender hands, she reached down and cradled his battered face, the chill of his skin a stark contrast to her warmth. Once handsome features now bore the brutal marks of violence—black and blue bruises adorned his visage, while deep cuts marred his brows and lips.

“Oh, Arthur,” she murmured softly, her voice a delicate whisper as if afraid to disturb a baby from its fragile slumber. A tremor coursed through her lip, tears welling in her eyes and blurring her sight.

“Arthur,” Repeating his name like a sacred invocation, she sank to her knees in the dirt, wrapping one arm around his torso. Her breath hitched at the sight of the gaping wound carved into his left shoulder, a dark abyss that seemed to swallow the very essence of hope. Gently easing him onto his back, her throat constricted with a wave of anguish as she beheld the extent of his injuries.

His torn undersuit left him exposed to the unforgiving elements, his stomach and chest stained with a mixture of blood and dirt. Bruises, a tapestry of purples and yellows, painted almost every inch of his battered skin. But it was the festering wound in his stomach that seized her attention, a steady bubbling stream of blood served as a grim reminder that she was still running out of time.

She couldn't fathom how he managed to escape, but in that moment, it didn't matter. Arthur was back in her embrace, and time was their only remaining lifeline.

As Kate attempted to lift him, he winced in agony, his eyes fluttering open. Once a beautiful deep blue, they were now swollen and obscured by blood.

Arthur had shed copious amounts of blood since extracting the small steel knife from his side, his mind teetering on the edge of delirium. Hovering between the realms of existence and oblivion, he questioned the reality before him. When the familiar warmth of Kate's hands caressed his cold, weary face, he entertained the notion that perhaps she had been his guide all along, a psychopomp leading his fractured soul into the unknown.

She spoke to him, but her words were drowned out by a deafening ringing in his ears. In that moment, he felt it might be his final breath, but he found solace in the thought of resting beside her, his last act of devotion to warn her of the impending danger.

"Kate," he managed to rasp, his voice strained, "it’s…it’s a t-trap." With trembling fingers, he reached out to grasp her arm.

Her voice, a soothing melody in the chaos, reached him, "I know, honey, I know," she reassured him, her thumb tracing gentle circles on his cheek.

Arthur's urgency escalated, "Th-they'll k-ill… you," he struggled to rise, his efforts met with a wince of pain, "Dutch, I… I-I have to… warn him." He fought against the agony, his body writhing on the ground in an attempt to compose himself.

"Shh, easy, honey, I'm right here," Kate comforted, her words a balm to his panicked soul, "I'm going to take you home." She knew Dutch wouldn't come for him. She was his only hope.

Tears, warm as summer rain, streamed down her cheeks as Kate beheld him in agonizing pain. She longed to erase the brutal images of his torture etched in her mind, willing to claw her own eyes out to rid herself of the haunting sight. Regret gnawed at her, wishing she had searched for him sooner, trusting her instincts and her faithful mare who sensed the danger from the start. If only she could shield him from suffering, but all she could do was cradle him in her arms and summon the strength to lead him home.

His breaths quickened, lips trembling, cheeks shimmering in the moonlight as tears mingled with blood and grime. Kate pressed her forehead against his, placing a tender kiss on the bridge of his nose. "I'm so sorry, Arthur," she murmured amid her own silent tears. "I promise to bring you home. You're safe now. You're safe," she repeated, a whispered mantra of hope and solace.

The moonlit night felt strangely empty, punctuated only by the distant murmur of the nearby waterfall. With a sharp whistle, Kate commanded Lorena to kneel, bringing her closer to the ground.

Bracing herself, Kate wrapped her arm around Arthur's waist, feeling the weight of his pain with each whimper that escaped his lips. "I've got you, Arthur," she murmured, determination lacing her words. "I won't let go. Just hold on tight to me, alright?"

His labored breaths filled the night air as she maneuvered him into the saddle, settling herself in front of him. The task seemed insurmountable; she needed one hand for Belle's reins, the faithful mare bearing the burden of her own torment. With her free hand, Kate clung to Arthur, his cold, wet form pressing against her skin. He seemed to embody death itself, his scent a sickening mixture of the metallic tang of blood and bodily fluids.

Kate's heart pulsed with the weight of his condition, each beat echoing like a stone sinking into a tranquil pond. His body, cold and broken, found solace in the warmth of Kate's embrace. She was his guiding light, a beacon amidst the darkness that enveloped them. In her arms, he felt a sense of security, akin to a child cradled in the arms of a loving mother.

With his trembling hand clutching her tightly, he whispered her name, “Kate…” his voice a desperate plea for solace, for reassurance, for escape from the torment that surrounded them. Kate could offer nothing but her unwavering presence, her words a gentle murmur of comfort as they embarked on the long journey home.

As Lorena maintained her steady stride, the passage of time stretched before them like an endless expanse. With her hands occupied, Kate placed her trust in her faithful mare, each hoofbeat a testament to their shared urgency.

Alone with her thoughts, engulfed by the fear that Arthur might slip away from her grasp, Kate turned to the only refuge she knew: prayer.

She prayed to her mother for strength, her father for wisdom. With a heavy heart, she sought solace from her siblings, urging them to extend their gentle hands of comfort to both her and Arthur. In the depths of her anguish, Kate's prayers reached out to her husband and daughter, silently imploring for their support and guidance. She longed for their presence to envelop them both, for she needed their reassurance now more than ever.

The ache of losing yet another loved one gnawed at her soul, a pain all too familiar. Kate feared she would not withstand the agony if Arthur were to slip away. The thought of starting anew, of becoming someone else after this loss, felt unbearable. It was as if God had marked her hands since childhood, decreeing that every soul she held dear would be untimely ripped from her embrace.

A poignant memory of River flooded Kate's mind, the day he mourned the loss of his wife and child. Amidst his anguish, he had railed against his God, offering his own soul in exchange for theirs. He had once confided in her that their God watched over them, listening to their pleas. Sometimes it intervened and sometimes it did not.

In a moment of desperation, Kate cried out into the chilly night air, invoking the ancient tongue River had taught her—a language born of the elements: water, fire, air, and earth. “I will make a deal with you,” she cried. To whom she addressed her plea, she could not say. "If this is our fate," she implored, her voice trembling, "so be it. But spare him and take me instead. I offer myself for his salvation," her words echoed through the silent darkness. "I was given a chance at redemption long ago, but please, give him a chance to seek his own. His heart is pure, I know it."

But of course, nothing replied to her in the night. Save for the whisper of an owl and the rustle of leaves in the wind. "Take my soul for his," she whispered, her voice barely a murmur against the darkness.

Arthur stirred in his slumber beside her, his lips yearning for the kiss he once denied. In his dreams, they met, releasing the longing he dared not express.

The world seemed to unfold anew, reborn in her presence. Her voice, like the gentle morning, whispered into his soul, slowly emerging like the dawn. His heart swelled in her presence, lifting him to new heights, unwilling to look down.

AN: This chapter was so hard to write. I had to take frequent breaks just for my own mental health it was breaking my heart. Since Arthur doesn't have TB in this fic, this event will kind of be the turning point for him. His injuries are going to render him disabled and he'll be forced to confront the idea that his days as a gunslinging outlaw are finally at an end. You'll start to see more of that in the upcoming chapters. I wish I could say that the next chapter will be happier, but alas, it's now Kates turn to suffer. But she will do everything she can to save Arthur from his torment. As always thank you so much for reading/commenting/reblogging, this story has become so important to me and I appreciate every single one of you that's supporting me on this journey!

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your-divine-ribs · 7 months

Text

Expectations (Dad Van)

Words: 3.2k

Valentine’s Day when you’re heavily pregnant, no warnings just fluff 💗

Dad Van Masterlist Main Masterlist

It wasn't getting any easier. You were eight months pregnant and ready to pop. Your back ached, your muscles were strained and you were bone-weary tired. Since your perfect little rounded baby-belly had grown exponentially with no signs of slowing down you'd barely had more than three hours unbroken sleep, tossing and turning in bed at night in a fruitless attempt to get comfortable and getting up for frequent toilet breaks, and that wasn't the only problem. You felt like your body wasn't your own anymore, that the baby wasn't just taking up temporary residence but had moved in and completely taken over. The feeling was akin to being a lodger in your own house.

Of course you didn't begrudge the little one, you already loved her more than life itself and you'd not even met her yet, but boy were you impatient now. The pregnancy glow had dissipated quickly as you'd entered the third trimester and now you just felt huge and cumbersome and heavy and just so bloody exhausted, not to mention thoroughly undesirable. Not that your boyfriend would agree. If anything he just craved you all the more, showering you with affection and compliments and tender touches that quickly turned needy. He literally couldn't keep his hands off you, and who were you to deny him when he made you feel so good?

It had been a long day at work and you let out a drawn out sigh of relief as you pulled up on to your driveway. The promise of maternity leave was now only two weeks away but it may as well have been two years the way the days stretched on ahead of you seemingly endlessly.

"Hey, I'm home!" You called into the quiet house, ears straining for a response, a smile stretching on your lips at the faint call of "up here love... come on up... I've run you a bath..."

In truth you were envious of the way that Van's career gave him the freedom to work the hours he chose, letting him shun the 9 to 5 rat-race that you were embroiled in, but at times like this you were thankful. Now you were on the home stretch of your pregnancy he'd cancelled all touring and engagements and he was there waiting for you each day after work with a warm hug and a smile. He wasn't the typical house-husband type and his domestic skills left a lot to be desired, but he was trying so hard, and that was the important thing.

You hung up your coat and trudged up the stairs, the effort quickly leaving you panting for breath, unbuttoning your blouse and shrugging out of it as you went.

"Did ya have a good day love?"

Van looked up as you entered the bathroom, his eyes quickly leaving yours to trail over the expanse of your swollen belly. You didn't think it was possible to convey love as much from just a look but it was blatantly obvious the way that his eyes lit up as he gazed on your heavily pregnant form. It caught you off guard every time, a warm glow erupting in your chest as he quickly crossed to you with his arms outstretched.

"It was okay I guess, just the same old shit every day. I'm just so tired and everything aches. How about you? What've you been up to?"

Van's hands curled around your hips as he looked down on you. "Well I finished painting the nursery at last. It's looking really good now, all ready for our little princess."

Again his gaze sank to your belly, a hand tenderly brushing over your skin as he crouched down to talk directly to the large bump. "And how's my little lady doing? You been behaving yourself for mummy today?"

He was answered with a kick and you giggled at the perfect timing. You were certain that your unborn daughter could pick out Van's voice as she often responded to it, livening up immediately when she heard him. You often found yourself day-dreaming, fast-forwarding in your head, picturing Van and her laughing and playing, cooking up wild scenarios and going on epic adventures limited only by a child's imagination, the perfect duo. You just knew that they were going to be partners in crime and you'd probably end up on the receiving end of their mischievous pranks before she'd even learnt to talk properly. And you couldn't wait.

"She can hear you, she's kicking! Here... put your hand right here!"

You placed your hand atop Van's, sliding it across your tummy to where a little foot or hand or elbow was currently pummelling you from the inside, watching Van's expression turn to wonderment as he felt the vibrations through your skin.

"Yeah, yeah I can feel her! Hey little one! Whatcha doing in there?" He looked up at you. "She's got a right kick on her hasn't she? I swear she's gonna be a footballer." Back to your belly. "You gonna play for United yeah? Make your daddy proud?"

You rolled your eyes, laughing. "More like a boxer I'd say. She's been kicking the shit out of me all day, using my bladder as a punch bag!"

Van chuckled, leaning in to plant a kiss just above your navel and then rising to his feet and indicating the bath.

"You gonna get in then before it gets cold? I've just got some stuff to do downstairs."

Your brow creased into a little frown, disappointment flickering through you. "You not joining me? You know... 'cause it's Valentine's Day and all that? Make up for not even bothering to get me a card or a bunch of roses!"

You narrowed your eyes at him, letting mock-annoyance tinge your words. You weren't really bothered. You knew that he hated the commercial side of Valentines and to be honest you did too, but you couldn't resist teasing him. His eyes widened, feigning offence.

"You really need me to get you a sappy card and a bunch of over-priced flowers to show my love for ya? Nah... that just won't cut it. Got something else planned haven't I? And it's much better than all that..."

He trailed off, his voice mysterious which instantly kicked your intrigue into overdrive. He was wearing that cheeky little smirk on his lips now that made your pulse quicken and you wondered what he had planned.

"Are you gonna make love to me on a bed of rose petals?" You grinned up at him, watched him shake his head. "Whisk me off to Paris maybe?" He pulled a face.

"You'll find out soon enough. Now go on, have your bath... relax for a bit. Then come downstairs straight after, yeah?"

"Okay, okay. This'd better be good McCann!"

"Oh it will be!"

He shot you a cheeky wink and leant forward to press a small kiss to your cheek, then he was darting out of the bathroom and bounding quickly down the stairs, his footsteps receding as you heard him moving down the hallway.

The bath was just what you needed and you sank down into the fragrant bubbles, feeling the knots of tension loosen as your muscles soaked up the heavenly warmth. You didn't even realise that you'd fallen asleep until a loud crashing sound wrenched you out of your slumber and you sat bolt upright, water sloshing over the side of the tub.

It was completely quiet and you began to think that maybe it was the remnants of a dream, but then you heard another noise, a metallic thunk followed by a string of curses. What the hell was he doing down there?

The piercing sound of the smoke alarm gave you your answer and you groaned out loud. Van's disastrous forays into cooking were almost legendary and you were still haunted by the time he almost set the kitchen on fire trying to flash-fry a steak. Thankfully catastrophe was averted and the only casualties were his singed eyebrows and a bruised ego, but it could have been a lot worse. Heaven knows what carnage he could be causing downstairs right now.

So you reluctantly hauled your pregnant frame out of the bath tub and dried yourself down with a fluffy towel which you quickly secured around your chest, opening the bathroom door and calling down the stairs.

"You alright down there? What's going on?"

The reply was immediate, shouted back up with gusto. "Yeah, everything's fine! Don't worry! Got everything under control babe! Just had a... minor mishap..."

You sighed, considering returning to the bath, but the warmth had started to leech from the water and the skin on your fingertips had started to shrivel so you pulled the plug and turned to look at your reflection in the large mirror situated over the sink, letting the towel drop to the floor. Wiping away the condensation you were met with a version of yourself that you barely recognised. Your skin was stretched tightly over your stomach which was now protruding that much that you could no longer see your feet. Your breasts were swollen and heavy, having gone up two cup sizes... much to Van's delight. Then there were the stretch marks. A network of fine red stripes stretching all over the underside of your baby bump. Tiger stripes. You hated them with a passion, even knowing that eventually they'd fade to faint silvery lines, but Van wouldn't hear you moan about them. You smiled to yourself as you recalled him kissing them tenderly, telling you that they were simply part of you, so he loved them just as much as the rest of you.

Another barrage of curse words drifted up from downstairs, snatching your attention away from the mirror and you grabbed for your fluffy robe, slipping into it and padding downstairs quickly on your bare feet.

You could smell the acrid scent of burning and see the air thick with smoke before you'd even pushed fully through the kitchen door and you braced yourself when you did, coming to a stop with your mouth agape, stunned by the sight before you. There were discarded pans in the sink coated with congealed burnt on food and boiled over pots on the stove. Dark splotches of a thick red sauce was sprayed up the usually pristine white cupboard surfaces. But that wasn't what really caught your attention.

There in the midst of it all was Van, his face creased into an awkward smile, splattered with pasta sauce... completely stark bollock naked apart from a garish pink novelty Valentine's apron bearing the words 'Will You Be Mine?'

"Alright love," he said meekly. "I really wanted to make you a nice dinner, but I think I might have fucked it up a little bit..."

You were quiet for a moment, taking in the scene, but not for long. How could you dwell on the kitchen chaos when you were faced with that?

"Oh my god... what the hell are you wearing? Or should I say what aren't you wearing?"

Van's face instantly cracked into a wide playful grin. "Ta-da!" He smirked proudly. "You like it?"

"It's... it's..." you trailed off into another fit of giggles as Van held out his arms and gave you a twirl... and an eyeful in the process. "I don't know what to say! I'm actually speechless for once!"

"How about 'come ere sexy?'"

You crossed the kitchen in a few steps, straight into his waiting arms, both laughing as he tried to pull you in tight for a hug but your huge baby bump prevented your bodies from meeting.

"Think something's come between us!" You quipped, then you pulled back, eyeing the gaudy apron with amusement. "So this is it, eh? This is my big Valentine's present? You practically naked? I'm surprised you didn't jump out of a giant cake or wrap yourself up in shiny paper with a big ribbon or something!"

"You can still unwrap me if ya like love?" He grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe after dinner?"

"Dinner?" You echoed, your eyes darting to the chaos behind him, your nose wrinkling in distaste at the pungent smell of burnt food. You'd long gotten over the nausea of morning sickness but the idea of trying to stomach one of Van's culinary creations was making your gut churn. "So... what did you make?"

"Well... it was supposed to be some posh pasta dish... saw Gordon Ramsey cooking it online. It's just not turned out quite how it was supposed to. I mean, we might be able to salvage it..." he paused, the sheepish look returning as he glanced behind him at the mess. "Or I could just do us beans on toast?" His voice rose up hopefully, face scrunching doubtfully. "Or there's some pizzas in the freezer... or maybe we could get a takeaway?"

"Takeaway sounds good!" You hurriedly blurted, relieved to have a choice that didn't involve Van's cooking, grabbing hold of his hand when you saw the disappointment etched on his face although he was trying to hide it. "Hey, all this is great, I really do appreciate it you know. Don't feel bad about it."

"But I do feel bad love. I really wanted to do something special for you, make it romantic. You do so much and you never complain and I'm just a bit..." he paused, shrugging whilst he searched for the right word. "Useless..."

"Awww don't say that!" You made a grab for his other hand, drawing him close and looking up at him. "You've been doing loads recently. You've completely decorated the nursery, you've been out buying loads of stuff, you've come to all the ante-natal classes with me..."

"Yeah, and I about bloody passed out when the midwife was going through your birth plan. What am I gonna be like at the real thing? I'm probably just gonna go and let you down."

You giggled. "You'll be fine, honestly, you'll see. We both will be as long as we're together."

He smiled then, gave a small sigh and a shrug, and then a little frown creased his features. "I'm trying Y/N, I really am. I've wanted to be a dad for as long as I can remember and I'm so excited, but now it's only weeks away I keep stressing, worrying I'm not doing enough. I wanna do as much as I can, look after you, and the baby when she's here." His eyes strayed down to your bump, glowing fondly. "Wanna take care of both of you."

"You're doing great Van, you really are," you assured him. "I certainly got no complaints."

He didn't look convinced. "But I can't even cook a simple pasta dish! And you should have seen me painting the nursery earlier. I swear I ended up with more paint in my hair than than on the walls! I'm just rubbish at all this 'hands on' stuff. And what about when the baby's here? What if I do something wrong? What if I'm a shit dad?"

He looked so earnest it made your heart ache. It was only a few weeks back that you'd been wracked with worries and doubts yourself when you'd been packing your hospital bag in advance as instructed. It had suddenly all seemed too real and too imminent and you'd panicked, wondering how on earth you were actually going to physically birth the baby and then feed and look after her. Van had been right there at your side, a comforting arm around your shoulder, his free hand brushing away the tears that had rolled down your cheeks as you'd offloaded all your worries on to him. His gentle caresses and words of comfort had eventually coaxed you around to a more positive state as he'd told you how strong you were and how much he admired you and how you were going to be "the best mum the world had ever seen". Then he'd made you laugh when he'd backtracked and added, "Just don't tell my mum I said that or she'll kill me!"

Now you'd switched roles and you were the one building up Van's wavering confidence. Few people saw this side of him. He was always outwardly so self-assured, but you knew the real Van. The one who took so much pride in everything that he did that anything short of perfection was deemed a failure.

You disentangled your fingers from his so you could reach up and cup his face with both of your hands, thumbs brushing his freckled cheeks.

"You are so not going to be a shit dad!" You told him, your voice coming out firmer than intended which caused his lips to curl into a smile. "You're one of the kindest, most caring people I know. Fair enough, you're a crap cook..." You paused, a laugh bubbling up which Van echoed. "But our little girl is going to the luckiest girl in the world to have a dad like you. I bet there's not many babies that've already got about three albums worth of songs written for them before they've even been born! You're gonna be a great dad and she's gonna love you so much."

He hung on your every word, his smile growing as you spoke, his hands sliding around your waist.

"And I'm gonna love her too. I already do. You wouldn't believe how much Y/N... I didn't even think it was possible to ever love anyone as much as I love you, but I do. And that's a whole lot of fucking love!"

He chuckled, his fingers flexing on your waist, squeezing you gently. You felt so much love and affection at that moment you were sure that you were positively glowing with it. And he hadn't finished yet.

"Honestly babe, I don't know what I did to deserve you. You make me so happy."

"And I love you too," you replied, pushing yourself up on to the balls of your feet as you tilted his face down to meet yours. "Come here you big softy!"

You pressed your lips to his and he practically purred in appreciation, his hands sliding further around your waist as he pulled you as close to him as your baby bump would allow. The kiss was soft and sweet and his lips were warm and enticing, moving slowly against yours, savouring your closeness.

Your hands fell away, reaching for his hips and you smiled against his mouth as you felt the bare skin there. You'd almost forgotten about your Valentines surprise, such a typical Van gesture.

You pulled away, fixing him with a sexy little smile as your fingers located the apron string, tugging on it until it came undone. He smirked down on you, his eyes simmering with a gentle kind of heat which warmed you through.

"What're you doing love? Thought you were gonna unwrap me after dinner?"

"Yeah well... I changed my mind. Maybe I want my dessert before dinner..."

Then you were both laughing, smiling into the kiss, wrapped up in each other's arms.

#dad van #catfish and the bottlemen #van mccann #van mccann x reader #au fanfic #vanfic

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