#and i have a lot of work that i have to finish tonight and i'm working all morning tomorrow. probably won't sleep until 2.

[not-neverland06]

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚕 𝚂𝚘𝚗

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

A/N: It's finally here, the fruits of my labor have finally come forth lol. I finally managed to get out those last few bits that I was struggling with so much. Turns out, finally getting on anti-depressants is actually a fucking game changer. Who knew?

I'd like to apologize for how long this took, but, also, I'd like to thank you all for being so supportive. I know there can be a lot of toxicity in fandoms, especially in fanfiction. I have been absolutely blessed with such wonderfully supportive, understanding, and kind readers. I want you to know that I do not take you guys for granted and absolutely love the small community I've found on here. Thank you all, and know that the epilogue is nearly finished and will be posted within the next 1-2 days, as I'm sure some of you will be wanting it after this one.

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: The end is nigh. Arthur feels it in the air, the broiling tension and building hostility within the gang. Their enemies are no longer their biggest problem. Instead, they have to worry about each other now. There's betrayal at every turn and Arthur is stuck in the middle of it all, pulled incessantly between two worlds. His old life as an outlaw, and the possibility of a new one with you.

You heave the hog off your shoulder and drop it onto Pearson’s table with a heavy thud. The legs creak under the weight, groaning as though they might give way. For a moment, you hover, watching the table tremble before it steadies. Satisfied, you take a step back.

Pearson ambles out of his tent, wiping his hands on his stained apron. He spots the hog, and his face twists into a suspicious scowl. “What the hell is that?”

You give a faint grin, more out of habit than humor. “Helped a farmer down the road. Didn’t have the coin to pay me, so he gave me one of his prize hogs.”

Pearson’s frown deepens, his lips twitching as though he’s struggling to process the situation. After a beat, he shrugs. “Alright, fine.”

You scoff, the lack of gratitude digging under your skin. Would it kill him to crack a smile? Shaking your head, you turn away, irritation simmering as you leave him to his work. Maybe you’ll go for another ride tonight—most likely camping out under the stars. Anything to clear your head.

You’ve still got a few hours before sunset, so you mull over how to kill the time. A race with Sadie might do the trick. The familiar sound of hooves splashing through the mud catches your attention. Normally, you’d ignore it, but a sudden commotion pulls your focus.

Mrs. Grimshaw’s gasp pierces the air, her hands clasped over her mouth in shock. Frowning, you follow her gaze, your stomach twisting as you spot riders approaching. Their faces are blurry in the distance, but something about the way they move makes your chest tighten. Stepping closer, your heart drops like a stone.

Dutch is at the head of the group, leading his men back into camp. Those who’d been on the ferry are all there, alive and well—except for one. The absence burns hotter than the sun on your back. Anger flares like wildfire in your chest, threatening to consume you.

The others cheer and laugh, crowding around the returning riders. Your gaze locks with Micah’s, and your teeth clench so hard it hurts. Dark circles frame his eyes, and he coughs into a bloodied cloth. The sight of him—the fact that this bastard gets to live while Arthur doesn’t—is enough to make you sick.

You turn away sharply, unable to stomach the celebration. Across the camp, your eyes meet Sadie’s. She’s leaning against the cabin, her face a mask of restrained fury. The sight of Dutch soaking up the adoration like a starving dog gnaws at what’s left of your patience.

You can feel it slipping away—your peace, your freedom. Dutch’s return threatens to drag it all back into the muck. But not this time. You swear it, not this time.

Dutch Van der Linde isn’t your leader. He isn’t your friend or your family. He’s nothing but a man who takes and takes until there’s nothing left.

Your gaze hardens on his back, your lips curling in quiet defiance. Tonight, you’re leaving—for good. Damn the gang. Damn this camp. And damn Dutch Van der Linde.

Arthur finds Diablo waiting for him at Shady Belle, as though the horse knew exactly where he’d return. He walks up to him, rubbing the horse’s nose gently. He finds an apple and gives it to Diablo, relishing in the familiar connection.

He’d known, deep down, when he was on his way here, that the gang wouldn’t be around. There was no way they could stay near St. Denis after what happened. Still, when he doesn’t see you immediately, the gut-deep ache doesn’t fade, even if he’d expected it. 

The note Sadie leaves is easy enough to figure out. Going off the hooves circling around the house, he’s sure the men who were ahead of him discovered the location too. Mounting Diablo and riding off toward camp is such an achingly familiar feeling it almost hurts. After weeks in Guarma, scorched by the sun and tortured by corrupt politicians, riding Diablo feels like a return to something sacred, something he can’t quite explain.

Reacclimating himself to the feeling of riding a horse isn’t an arduous task, but it is uncomfortable at first. He’d walked across every inch of Guarma, then spent weeks on a boat. It’s been so long since he felt the freedom of the open plains.

 Arthur looks toward the horizon, to the setting sun and the golden light casting its net across the world before him. It won’t be much longer until he’s back with you. He’s almost looking forward to hearing you say ‘I told you so.’

It’s not much longer before he’s riding through the muddy puddles in front of the cabins deep in the moors. Sadie is the first to see him. Her head is ducked, eyes down as she speaks in hushed whispers with you. Your back is to him and he doesn’t know if he’s grateful or not. The idea of a reunion has felt like a distant dream, he’s not sure if he’s truly ready to see you again. 

Sadie’s head lifts slightly, eyes locking on his. Her face goes slack with shock, cheeks pale, and eyes wide. “Sadie?” You ask, and your voice is like a balm over all his aches and pains. “What is it?” You don’t look,as stubborn as ever, you nudge at Sadie’s shoulder, waiting for an answer.

She spares you a brief glance as Arthur dismounts, eyes still stuck on him. “Turn your ass around and look,” she demands, her voice a mix of disbelief and wonder.

Arthur doesn’t notice the way Sadie throws herself at him, her arms wrapping around him, pulling back, and slapping his shoulder. He’s too focused on you. Your shoulders are stiff, fists curled tight like you know he’s there but can’t bear to turn around. In all his time thinking of this moment, of seeing you again. He’d forgotten something very important. 

Finally, you turn around. Arthur grins, the relief in his chest rising. “Well?” He teases, arms open wide as he narrows his eyes at you. “Aren’t you gonna say hi?”

You don’t answer, eyes nearly bulging out of your head as you look close to tears. Arthur’s brow furrows in confusion. He thought you’d at least look happy to see him. “Arthur Morgan,” Sadie chides from beside him, though her grin betrays her. “I thought you were dead, you bastard.”

Arthur feels his heart drop, finally realizing why you’re acting like you’ve seen a ghost. He was gone for weeks, last you heard he’d been on a ship. And word had probably gotten around that they’d been shipwrecked. Weeks without word, the shipwreck, and the rumors that must’ve circulated. He hadn’t thought for a second that you might actually believe he’d left you behind. After the way you’d parted, he supposes he didn’t do enough to convince you otherwise.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, chest clenching tight, “I-” 

You take quick steps toward him, boots splashing through the mud. He mutters your name lowly, an apology and a promise laced between the syllables. You suck in a sharp breath and he thinks you might hug him. Before he can say anything else, his head is whipping to the side, cheek stinging. 

Your hand lingers in the air for a moment, as if still caught in disbelief. You stare at him, your eyes wide, voice trembling. “Arthur?” you whisper, your words barely audible, your face crumpling under the weight of the truth.

You surge forward, grabbing the collar of his tattered shirt and dragging him down. You surge up, pressing your lips to his with a desperation that nearly matches his own. He can taste the salt of your tears as you kiss him, the way they streak down your cheeks. 

Arthur’s heart drops. He’s used to being a disappointment to the people around him. He’s experienced this a hundred times. His relationship with Mary was no exception, he should be used to this pain by now. But knowing he’s failed you, makes it hurt worse than it ever has before. Arthur grabs you by the waist, desperate to make up for everything. He pulls you as close as he can get, pressing his lips to yours. 

You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, desperation nearly a physical thing as you return his touch. You hold each other as though this kiss could somehow erase the weeks of suffering you’d both endured.

He doesn’t want to let go again. Arthur never wants to see that heartbroken look on your face. And he doesn’t ever want to be the cause for it, not anymore. The ache in his chest loosens as he breathes you in like you’re the only air he’ll ever need. Arthur won’t let you go again, he swears it to himself, because he knows you won’t ever believe him again.

You and Arthur sit toward the back of the cabin, away from the heart of the gathering. Everyone had been thrilled to see him alive, their greetings warm yet subdued, their relief tempered by everything they’d been through in his absence. 

Your hand rests loosely in his, a token of comfort you hardly seem aware of offering. Arthur studies your face as you listen to Dutch’s grand retelling of Guarma, your narrowed eyes betraying the skepticism simmering beneath your otherwise still expression. Each time Dutch embellishes a detail, you flick your gaze toward Arthur, silently searching his expression for the truth. The scrutiny makes Arthur shift uncomfortably, though he knows it’s not unwarranted.

“I truly do not know how you all made out so well here.” Dutch comments, lips curled slightly as he glances around at the thick layers of dust and dirt coating the walls 

Tilly grins eagerly, motioning toward you and Sadie. “It was all Mrs. Rowe and Sadie, they found this place. They been taking care of everything.” 

Arthur’s brows furrow as he watches a sheepish smile grow on your face. He squeezes your hand and you glance toward him. He lifts his brow in question and you nod your head. “Ain’t been doin’ much,” you tell him, shrugging. 

Sadie must hear you because she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You kiddin’ me? Once you finally stopped mopin’, you were the only reason we didn’t all lose our minds.” Your smile tightens, the edges hardening as your shoulders stiffen.

“Well,” Dutch interrupts smoothly, his voice cutting through the tension. He fixes you with a look, and you straighten under his gaze. “I suppose I should thank the both of you for holding things together.”

“Suppose you should,” you reply sharply, meeting his eyes without flinching. “Or maybe you could apologize for that half-assed plan that got us stuck in this mess in the first place.”

Arthur’s hand tightens on yours, his voice low and warning. “Don’t—”

You whip around, glaring at him, and he’s startled by the fire in your eyes. Without a word, you yank your hand free and stand. Arthur opens his mouth to protest, but Dutch steps forward, his gaze narrowed in on you.

The tension is interrupted by the door bursting open behind Dutch. Bill stumbles in, his face red and sweaty. “Go’damn!” he bellows, his chest heaving. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all damn day. Had to ask every soul in town where the hell you were.”

Arthur’s gut twists. He bolts to his feet, striding toward you and Bill. “What’dya mean you asked around town?”

Bill falters, his face draining of color. His lips part as if to speak, but the words are stolen by a booming voice from outside.

“This is Agent Milton,” the voice calls. The blood drains from Arthur’s face as he grabs your arm, pulling you toward him. “You have one minute to surrender before my men decide to take you in dead.”

“Dammit, Bill, you fool,” Arthur growls, the words biting through clenched teeth. His mind races as he grips your arm firmly. He knows the men outside won’t hesitate. They aren’t the type to spare the women or the children. They’ll gun you down just for being around him and the others. He tugs you closer, instinct has him shielding you from the chaos as best he can. 

Milton doesn’t wait for the countdown. “Forget it,” he barks. “Start shooting.”

The first bullets shatter the cabin’s windows, sending shards of glass spraying like rain. Arthur curls his body around yours, as the rest of the gang scatters, some diving to the floor, others scrambling for cover. A lamp explodes nearby, and the oil catches fire, dripping to the floor and licking at the walls.

Arthur’s focus is on you, but you’ve already moved. You duck and grab a rifle from beneath a cot, slinging it over your shoulder. There’s no hesitation, no look back for approval. You dart toward the door, your movements swift and purposeful.

“Wait, dammit, don’t!” Arthur shouts, but you’re already outside, firing before the Pinkertons can adjust their aim. The sun has dipped below the fire, he only spots you through flashes of bullets and the fire steadily growing behind him. He tugs his revolver out, shooting wildly, the Pinkertons are swarming out of the forest like wolves, there's no point in aiming now.

Arthur follows along behind you, taking cover behind a wagon as some of the others pick up their own guns. He spots Sadie running past him, shouting something indecipherable as she takes out the Maxim gun. Blood flies as bullets make their marks, after weeks on a boat it almost feels foreign to feel the warmth of someone else’s life pressing against him. 

Through the chaos, he watches you move with precision, directing shots with a cold efficiency that makes his chest tighten. You’re not the woman he left behind. You’re faster, bolder, and sharper, your confidence and stupidity is clear as you throw yourself into the center of danger, taking aim at some of the men on the roofs of the cabins. 

Arthur sees another man creeping up behind you. His gun has been abandoned somewhere, he only has a machete in his hand now, arm arcing down toward your head. Weeks without practice might have left him slower than he used to be, but he’s still quick enough to shoot the blade out of the man’s hand. 

You flinch at the shot, whipping around with a pinched expression. The attacker shouts, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest. Without hesitation, you rise and swing the butt of your rifle at the back of his skull. The man crumples face-first into the mud, lifeless. You don’t even look at him again, your focus snapping back to the fight as you resume shooting, each shot clean and deliberate.

The tide of the fight begins to shift. Once Sadie got ahold of the maxim, the Pinkertons had no choice but to start their retreat. Even outnumbered fifty to one, the gang still has some fight left in them. But it’s a fragile victory, and Arthur knows it won’t last.

He weaves his way toward you, his mind racing, but you speak first before he can get a word out.

“They’ll regroup,” you say, your voice firm but low. “We need to track them into the woods, pick them off before they get away.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “What’re you talkin’ about?” His voice is sharper than he intends. “You’re stayin’ right here. You hear me? I’ll deal with it.”

Your face screws up and it’s the first time you’ve given him a glance of the anger that had been burning under the surface. You go silent, lips set in a firm line before you glance over his shoulder. “They’re getting away,” you tell him quietly. “You can stay here if you want, but I’m going after the rest with Sadie and Charles.” 

You move around him without waiting for a response, your rifle brushing his arm in a way that feels deliberate, distant. The message is clear: you no longer need his protection. Arthur watches, stunned, as you stride toward the others.

For a moment, he stands frozen, the weight of the realization sinking in. The way you fight now, the fire in your eyes, the complete lack of hesitation, it’s all different. You’ve become someone who doesn’t need him, someone who’s learned to stand alone.

His chest tightens as he mounts Diablo, his gaze flickering toward you one last time before spurring the horse forward. He’ll follow the Pinkertons like you suggested. But even as he rides, a different battle churns inside him.

This isn’t something a few dead Pinkertons will fix. The distance between you both is growing and for the first time, Arthur feels powerless to stop it.

Dutch moved them down to Beaver Hollow, it’s a nice enough spot near the base of the mountains. The only problem is a bad brood of folk called the Murfree’s. A bunch of animals masquerading as men, cannibalizing people, and taking women without a care. Arthur hates the idea of you being anywhere near them. He’s doing his best to keep you in camp and you don’t argue. Arthur’s surprised at your easygoing obedience after what happened at the other camp. 

He’s getting worried about you. You’re quiet more often than not, you don’t bite back at Dutch or Micah like you usually would. And you’re more on edge than he’s ever seen you. He tries to talk to you about it, to understand what’s going on with you, but you won’t tell him. 

You always just say you’re worried about what’s going to happen when everything finally goes wrong. He thinks he knows what you mean, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. Too many times has he been told that the reign of outlaws is over. There’s no room left for them anymore. 

When he was a boy, he would have thought that the time of outlaws was immortal. It’s easy when you’re young and foolish to think that you’re invincible, that nothing can ever touch you. He sees everything coming close to an end now, though. Despite the elation of their return back to a land they know, nothing’s the same. 

Micah’s only gotten worse since they returned from their shipwrecked time in Guarma. He’s always coughing, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. A doctor down in St. Denis told him it was tuberculosis a while back, Arthur knows that their time on the island only further agitated the disease. Since then, he’s been angrier, always whispering in Dutch’s ear. 

And Dutch, he won’t listen to Arthur anymore. Since the Pinkertons turned up at the cabins, he has it in his head that everyone’s a traitor. The only person he’ll trust is the one whispering poison into his ear. It drives Arthur mad. He keeps trying to get Dutch to tell him what’s going to happen next but he just says the same thing every time. “I have a plan, Arthur. Don’t you trust me?”

Before Guarma, before the O’Driscolls, before you, he would have said yes in a heartbeat. But he doesn’t trust him anymore, he can’t. Not after Dutch left him for dead, and then Sean and John. Sadie and Arthur had to go bust them both out of the chain gang they’d been working at in jail. It had been a mess and a half but when they’d returned to camp the only thing Dutch had to say was, “I had a plan.”

He’d been angry at them for rescuing the men and Arthur couldn’t understand why. He never would have left them to rot if Hosea were still here. 

The thought of the old man’s death leaves an ache in Arthur’s chest. He keeps picturing him lying on the St. Denis road, bleeding out. He knows Dutch couldn’t have done a damn thing about it, that bastard Milton was never going to spare him. But, if he had been given the opportunity to save Hosea by turning himself in, Arthur knows he wouldn’t have taken the chance. Dutch has grown selfish and arrogant, prioritizing himself over the rest of the gang and it only makes Arthur’s resentment grow. 

Still, he can’t help but see him as the man who’d taken him off the streets. Dutch and Hosea had taught him how to shoot, how to read and write. They’re the reason he knows how to hunt and make it on his own in the wild. How can he turn against the man who raised him to be who he is today?

You shift restlessly beside him, turning out of his hold and onto your side. Arthur frowns at the action, placing a light hand on your arm. You don’t shrug out from under his touch but you don’t reciprocate. You’ve turned cold and it’s only making everything harder. 

“I want to leave,” you whisper, and he startles slightly, thinking you’ve been asleep this whole time. 

“Huntin’?” Even as he speaks, he knows it’s not what you want, but he tries anyway. 

You scoff, the noise bitter and angry. “No.” You tell him shortly, tone clipped as you rise from the cot. Without another glance at him, you start changing out of your nightgown. Arthur sits up slowly, watching you. He doesn’t know what he’s done to spark this sudden shift in you, but the tension is near suffocating. “You have to see it, Arthur,” you say, pulling up your pants and tightening the belt. You glance over your shoulder, your expression is expectant, almost pleading. 

He lets out a rough sigh, figuring that there’s no chance of convincing you to rest a little longer. “See what?” He asks, dragging his hand over the stubble on his jaw. A low groan slips from his lips as he gets to his feet, back protesting at the too-small cot. 

“This,” you motion wildly, arms swinging out towards the camp that waits outside the closed flaps of his tent. “All of this, Arthur. It’s coming to an end. I can feel it,” you tell him, voice impassioned with fear and urgency. “There’s only so far we can run.”

Arthur looks away from you, shrugging on his shirt. “I know it’s hard right now. But Dutch-”

“Has a plan?” You snap, taking a step closer to him. Your brows knit tightly together, anger burning hot behind your eyes. You swat his hands away as he fumbles with a button, doing his shirt up for him. Even in your frustration, you can’t help but help him. It’s oddly endearing, despite the tension yawning between you. “He’s gonna get us to Tahiti?” You scoff, voice dripping with sarcasm as you roll your eyes. You smooth out his collar before stepping back, movements curt and precise.  

He reaches forward, hands catching your waist and tugging you back toward him before you can get far. You don’t meet his eyes, stubbornly looking away, but you don’t stop him from pulling you closer. 

“We’ll leave,” your head whips towards him, face lighting up with hope. He winces, wishing he was more clever with his words. “For a few days,” he clarifies and your eyes narrow into irritated slits. 

“I promise, what happened in St. Denis isn’t going to ever happen again.” He needs you to believe him, to understand just how much of a fool he felt like getting on that boat with Dutch. They hadn’t truly had another choice, but if he had a chance to do it all again he would have ran away with Charles. He never would have even left you at camp. 

“After a certain point, Arthur,” you squeeze his hand in yours and he feels just a little bit of relief at you finally returning his touch. “Your promises stop meaning much when you don’t keep them,” you slip out of his hold and his face falls flat, chest caving slightly. “But, sure, we’ll leave for a few days,” you shake your head, slipping out from his tent as he stares at the spot you’d once occupied. 

How had things gotten so bad?

“And where are you going, Mrs. Rowe?”

Arthur turns toward the sound of Dutch’s voice, spotting him standing near Pearson’s station. He looks for all the world like he’s at ease, but the tense set of his shoulders and twitch at the corners of his lips betray him. Arthur’s gaze shifts to you, standing by Lady, one hand gripping the reins of the restless mare.

“For a ride,” you say curtly, your tone flat and face pointedly blank. “What’s it look like?”

Arthur’s stomach knots as he notices the tension in the air. You’re already gripping the horn of Lady’s saddle, pulling yourself up with practiced ease. Arthur watches as you glance down at Dutch, your expression hardening and eyes slit in challenge. 

Dutch steps closer, his mouth curving into a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I understand things were run a little differently while we were gone. But I don’t think you going out alone is what’s smart right now-”

“Frankly, Mr. Van der Linde,” you interrupt, voice laced with venom, “I don’t give a damn what you think. I’m going for a ride.”

Arthur watches the muscle in Dutch’s jaw tighten, the flare of his nostrils betraying his irritation. Dutch turns to him, his eyes sharp, searching Arthur’s face for the usual complacent obedience.

Arthur whistles, and Diablo trots up to him obediently. Swinging into the saddle, he shoots you a quick look. “You heard the lady. We’re goin’ for a ride.”

The trail you lead him down is unfamiliar, winding through thick trees and rocky inclines. Arthur catches himself stealing glances at you- the way you sit tall in the saddle, the ease with which you guide Lady over uneven terrain. He tries to meet your eye, but each time, you only offer him small, polite smiles. They feel hollow, and it gnaws at him.

The silence stretches, prickling at his nerves. Finally, he speaks, voice cutting through the suffocating stillness. “Alright. Where are we goin’?”

You glance at him briefly, nodding toward the mountains in the distance. “Meeting up with Charles and the local tribe. I’ve helped them hunt a few times, but,” you trail off slightly, voice growing heavy, “they’ve been having problems.”

Arthur raises a brow. “Problems?”

You hesitate, your jaw tightening. “With the military,” you admit.

He doesn’t feel like you’re telling the whole truth and he can’t help but prod you further. “What kind of problems?”

You let out a frustrated sigh, shifting in your saddle. “The kind Dutch has been making worse.” You shoot him a pointed look and his jaw clenches at the blame lurking in your gaze. “He’s been riling up the chief’s son, getting him involved in jobs he shouldn’t.”

Arthur’s frown deepens, his brows furrowed as he struggles to think of Dutch’s reasoning for getting involved with the local tribe. Though, it’s not as if he’s been involving him in many plans lately. “Why would Dutch do that?”

Your head snaps toward him, your eyes filled with pent-up ire that’s been waiting to spill over. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Hey, now,” Arthur objects defensively, his tone growing just as sharp as yours. “I’m just askin’ a question.”

You fall silent, your expression flattening as you look ahead again. The weight of your resentment  hangs heavy between you, unspoken but undeniable. Arthur feels it like a stone in his chest, and it makes his teeth grind.

Arthur isn’t sure what he expected, but the sight before him twists his gut. Women huddle around children, feeding them thin soup from chipped bowls. Elderly men and women cough into bloodstained rags, their frail bodies barely covered by thin blankets. The air smells of sickness and desperation.

Arthur glances at you, but you’re already dismounting and striding toward the center of the settlement. Despite the distrustful stares from the tribe members, you move with purpose, your shoulders squared.

Charles stands near an older man, his voice low but urgent. Arthur catches the tail end of the conversation. “…my people will not survive this much longer,” the man says, his voice weary but resolute.

Arthur follows behind you as you approach. The man carries himself with a quiet strength, but his face is lined with worry and it’s ageing him by the minute. There’s a glint of familiarity in his eyes as you approach and he nods his head in greeting.

“Arthur, this is Rains Fall, he’s the chief of this tribe,” you explain to Arthur, introducing the two. “He-”

“I know you,” Rains Fall interrupts, still looking at Arthur. “You were there in the city. Your leader was meant to help my people.” He shakes his head, and Arthur sees the pain of being betrayed one too many times in the old man’s face. “Now the military is holding our medicine hostage.”

Arthur’s jaw tightens as he takes in the scene. It’s worse than he imagined. He’s heard the stories—the government stealing land, taking children—but seeing it up close is something else entirely. 

Being associated with Dutch has never brought about anything but pride. But standing here, seeing the people he’s taking advantage of, he’s overcome with shame. Rains Fall speaks again, his voice steady despite the weight of his words. “If we cannot retrieve the vaccines soon, we will lose many more. My people are already weakened.”

Arthur looks to Charles, who meets his gaze with grim determination. “We’re going to get the medicine back.” he tells him, and Arthur knows that you’re going to help, whether he wants you to or not. “The officer’s camp isn’t too much further down the mountain. But we can’t risk this looking like the tribe’s retaliating, it’s why I need your help, Arthur.”

Arthur and Charles are close, perhaps not as close as they should be. But they respect one another. Right now, Charles isn’t just asking for a favor, he’s asking for the help of a friend. Of a brother. And Arthur won’t allow himself to keep disappointing the people he cares about. 

Arthur nods, his decision immediate. But the truth burns in his chest: Dutch’s hand is in this. Somehow, the man he once idolized has turned these people’s suffering into a means to an end.

He glances at you, and your expression says it all. This is what you’ve been trying to warn him about. The look you give him is sharp, almost scolding, as if to say I told you so. Arthur doesn’t have the words to argue—not this time.

The conversation with Rains Fall and Charles winds down, and the three of you prepare to part ways. Arthur adjusts his hat, turning toward you. “You comin’?”

You pause, exchanging a glance with Charles. The look between you is brief but meaningful, and Arthur feels a pang of something he can’t quite name.

“We’ll catch up,” you say simply, your tone dismissive.

Arthur hesitates, searching your face for… something. An explanation? Reassurance? But you’ve already turned away, speaking quietly with Charles. He lingers for a moment longer, then mounts Diablo.

Arthur finds himself screwing up more often than not lately. But letting Dutch know about the plans for the tribe, has to be one of the stupider things he’s ever done. Dutch wants to get involved, of course, for the good of the natives, he claims. Arthur knows him, though, he knows it’s more than that. 

Together, they go and find Eagle Flies, the chief’s son. He’s already with his own band of men, each of them young and healthy, the few fighters their tribe has left. Their plan to get the medicine back, to stick it to the military, is far more violent and grand than yours and Charles had been. 

“This is the dumbest idea I have ever heard,” Arthur tells Eagle Flies, glaring down at the dynamite in his hand. He turns toward Dutch, expression disbelieving, “I can’t believe you’re encouragin’ this!”

“Encouraging what, Arthur? These young men to fight for their home, their land back. I’m disappointed in you son,” Dutch chides, and the way he says son rubs Arthur the wrong way. “I thought you, of all people, would support a cause such as this.”

“I support the cause,” Arthur snaps, snatching the dynamite out of Eagle Flies hand, “but I cannot support acting like damn fools and getting yourselves killed.” He turns toward the boy, imploring him to see reason, not to listen to Dutch’s silver tongue. “My friend has a plan for your people, he can get the medicine back. And he can do it without getting anyone killed.”

“What is the point in that?” Eagle Flies growls, taking the dynamite back from Arthur. “You want us to just lay down, belly up like dogs and let these men take everything from us? You would have us stay quiet instead of fighting back? The only way your people hear us, is if we make ourselves loud.”

He steps back, looking around Arthur to Dutch. “Tonight, we’re going to their camp and we will send them a proper message. You can join us or not,” he snaps, storming back toward his men. 

“Dutch-”

“I’m disappointed in you, Arthur,” Dutch starts, shaking his head as he makes his way back to the horses. “Not just for this, but for how you’ve been acting lately.”

Arthur stops in front of Diablo, eyes narrowed on Dutch, “And how have I been actin’?” He snaps, tired of the superiority that Dutch carries himself with, as if he’s not trying to get these boys killed. 

Dutch stares down at him, distrust and suspicion lingering between the both of them, “Like someone I can’t trust.”

“Well,” Arthur shakes his head and mounts Diablo. “I guess we both feel the same, then.”

Charles is furious as Arthur tells him Eagle Flies plan to blow up the military encampment and steal back not just the vaccines, but the deed to their people’s land. “We had a plan,” Charles shouts, the first time Arthur has ever truly seen him lose his temper.

“Arthur,” you start, letting out a low sigh. “Why did you tell him?” He doesn’t need you to say his name for him to know who you’re talking about. 

“I thought,” he can’t finish his sentence. Too ashamed of what the end might be. He thought that, maybe, you were all wrong, that Dutch could still be relied on. That the man he once knew was still in there somewhere. It felt too childish to admit out loud. 

“We’ll need the others,” you start when it's clear Arthur doesn’t have a reasonable excuse. “We won’t be able to stop Eagle Flies on our own. Especially not if he actually picks a fight with the military.”

It doesn’t take long to gather the rest of the gang, some of them ready to join Dutch as he goes to see Eagle Flies. But Arthur knows that he’s doing this for the wrong reason. He doesn’t understand what Dutch thinks he can gain from exploiting the tribe, and he knows that Dutch is never going to share it with him. 

The ride toward the military encampment is quiet, the tension thick enough to choke on. Eagle Flies and the other men are already moving around the area when they arrive, dynamite placed and ready to ignite. Their faces are set with the determined fury of men ready to face death. 

Charles brings Taima to a harsh stop and swings down before she’s fully still. He heads straight toward Eagle Flies, face tight with anger. “What the hell are you doing?” He demands, voice sharp as he jerks the boy forward by his arm. “We had a plan! Your father-”

“My father would do nothing!” He snaps, ripping his arm out of Charles's grasp. His hands ball into tight fists at his side, as though he’s prepared to take his anger out on anyone close enough. “He waits, and we die slow. The army has taken everything from us, and you want me to stand by and watch?”

Arthur dismounts from Diablo, mud splashing around his boots as they hit the ground. “You blow this place sky-high, you think they’re just gonna walk away? They’ll come down even harder on your people.”

Eagle Flies’ expression flickers for a brief moment, the weight of his father’s disappointment visible in the tightness of his jaw. Before he can respond, a sharp sound cracks through the night. Everyone turns to face it as another breaks the silence. A gunshot, clear as day. 

Chaos erupts instantly, soldiers startling from their tents and returning from their watch along the treeline. They run forward, rifles raised, gunfire already ringing out through the night. “Shit!” Arthur curses, reaching for his revolver. 

As he turns to run for cover, the rest of the gang scattering, he realizes that he can’t find Dutch. He doesn’t want to assume the worst, he can’t. But he wasn’t beside Arthur when the first shot rang out, and the soldiers didn’t even know they were there yet. 

He doesn’t have time to linger on the thought as the first explosion detonates prematurely. A fireball launches to the sky, the ground below him shaking as though it’s about to split open. The horses make a run for it, bucking off riders and racing for cover. Shouted orders and screams become one cacophony as he finds cover. He fires from behind a stack of crates, bullets disappearing into the dark of the night, but the return fire is relentless. 

Arthur has lost sight of everyone, you, Charles, he sees no one except the soldiers bearing down on him. 

He grits his teeth and keeps shooting, even as the fire begins to spread across the dry grass and smoke fills his lungs. He sees one, two, three men drop before he’s forced to reload. As he turns, he spots Dutch nearby, moving through the smoke and fire with a calculated calm. For a brief moment, Arthur feels a flash of relief, if only to see one familiar face. 

Then, something slams into him. He’s knocked to the dirt, teeth rattling from the force. A soldier grapples Arthur and raises his arm, a knife flashing in the firelight as he swings it toward Arthur’s throat. He catches his wrist just in time, muscles straining and breath ragged as he holds the soldier back. The blade trembles inches from his neck, the soldier’s weight pressing him further into the suffocating earth. 

“Dutch!” Arthur chokes out, struggling to keep the knife at bay. “Dutch, help me!”

He sees Dutch stop and turn to face him. The gunshots have lessened, soldiers dropping to the ground like flies as the gang swarms over them. Dutch has nothing to worry about as he watches Arthur. Yet, his eyes are unreadable, cold in a way Arthur has never seen before. He looks at Arthur for a long time. Then he turns. 

And runs. 

Arthur’s grip slips, for a horrifying second, he nearly lets the knife drive through his throat. The shock and betrayal hits him like a punch to the gut. But before the knife can land, a wet, gurgling sound fills the air. The soldier jerks, eyes going wide and face paling as blood spills from his lips. 

Eagle Flies stands behind him, his knife buried deep in the man’s throat. He rips it out without a care and the body slumps to the ground. Arthur remains in a state of shock as Eagle Flies offers his hand. He hesitates, only for a second, before grasping it and hauling himself to his feet. He barely has a moment to catch his breath before another shot rings out. 

Eagle Flies gasps, his body jerking to the side as blood blossoms from his ribs. “No!” Arthur shouts, whipping around and putting a bullet between the eyes of the soldier who fired the shot. The man drops, but Arthur barely pays attention as he turns back to the boy. He grabs Eagle Flies as he wavers, slinging his arm over his shoulder. 

“Come on, kid. We’re gettin’ outta here,” he swears. Eagle Flies groans in pain but doesn’t argue. Arthur grits his teeth, half-dragging and half-carrying him away from the battlefield, bullets whizzing past him. 

He stumbles through the trees as the soldiers scream, wildfire consuming them quicker than his revolver ever would. He hears your voice over the sounds of death, sharp with desperation. “Where’s Arthur?” You shout and he lifts his head. You stand by the horses, face tight with worry and finger twitching close to the trigger. 

Dutch stands in front of you, expression impassive. “Where the hell is he?” You demand, stepping back from Dutch and raising the rifle to be level with his face. 

“Here,” Arthur calls out before you put a bullet in the man’s skull. You spin, your relief immediate but fleeting as your eyes fall on Eagle Flies slumped in his arms. Charles steps forward, his face contorting with grief as he looks at the boy. 

Arthur meets Dutch’s eye, something flickers in the man’s expression, something that could be shame if Arthur didn’t know better. He stares at him, and for the first time, he sees Dutch for what he truly is. A liar, a coward. And a man who would leave him to die. 

“I’m takin’ him home,” he turns his back to Dutch and prepares for the long ride back. 

He pushes Diablo faster than he ever has, heels digging into the shire’s side as he pushes him over the edge. Eagle Flies is only getting weaker and he can’t return another dead son to Rains Fall. He can’t be the reason that the rest of his family dies. 

He knows, though, that there is no chance of survival for a wound like Eagle Flies. No herbal remedy or medicine could fix this. But the least he could do is give them one last moment together. 

When he rides back onto the reservation, Rains Fall is already waiting to greet them. He rushes forward, face stricken as he sees his son slumped against Arthur’s back. Charles walks over, helping Arthur gently lower Eagle Flies from his horse. 

Rains Fall kneels beside his son, quickly scooping him into his arms and pressing his forehead to his. Eagle Flies is too weak for words by this point, eyes fluttering shut as he relaxes into his father’s embrace. 

“You brought him back,” Rains Fall murmurs, his voice breaking. Arthur nods, not trusting himself to speak. The chief closes his eyes for a long moment. When he opens them, they’re wet with sorrow. “This land will never be safe for us. We must go. Find somewhere else to settle.”

Arthur looks away, knowing nothing he could say would ever fix this. He could never salve over a wound like this with something as trivial as empty promises or kind words. You and Charles stand at his side, watching Eagle Flies take in his last shuddering breath. The disappointment is palpable. 

He can’t face it any longer. Can’t face the death or the grief that seems to follow him wherever he goes. Without a word, Arthur mounts his horse and rides off into the night, leaving the weight of it all behind him. 

And he knows, deep in his very soul, that nothing will ever be the same again. 

The trail lightens as the sun begins to rise. The sounds of the reservation fade behind him, swallowed by the rustling trees and the distant call of an owl. He rides without direction, without thought, just the steady rhythm of Diablo’s hooves against the earth, carrying him further from everything he no longer knows how to fix.

Then, a voice cuts through the silence.

“Oh!” Someone shouts from the trees, “You goddamn, useless,” the man’s voice trails off into a series of expletives that’s too quick for Arthur to make out. Face pinched in confusion, he nudges Diablo forward, leading him towards the man. 

An old man stands in the middle of a clearing, hopping around on one leg, fist waving wildly in the air as he curses to himself. Arthur chuckles to himself, watching the man plop to the ground with a huff. He reaches down and rolls his pant leg up, revealing a stump where his leg should be. 

Arthur frowns, slipping off Diablo and moving closer to the stranger. He’s barely got a chance to greet him before the man's whipping out his revolver, eyes narrowed in suspicion as Arthur approaches. 

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble, sonny.” The man tells him, pulling back the hammer of the gun. 

Arthur puts his hands up in surrender, shaking his head, “I’m not lookin’ to cause any. Only wanted to see if you needed any help.”

The man’s eyes turn into thin slits, lips pursed as he eyes Arthur up and down. He looks the part of an outlaw, but right now the stranger doesn’t have much choice but to trust him. He lets out a heavy sigh and puts his gun down. “Hamish Sinclair,” he offers as an introduction. Arthur gives him his name and Hamish gives him a brief smile. 

“Forgive my poor manners, don’t see much of anyone ‘cept those Murfree folk.”

Arthur shakes his head in dismissal, taking a step closer. “It’s fine. You wanna tell me what’s got you out here shoutin’ at the sky?” He can’t help the slight chuckle that slips out when he sees how Hamish’s shoulders slump in embarrassment. 

“It’s my damn horse, Buell, bucked me off, took my leg with him.” He gestures vaguely behind Arthur with a huff, “ran off that way.” Arthur nods, grabbing his rope off Diablo and heading off. “Feel free to shoot him,” Hamish shouts from behind him, “bastard’s caused me enough trouble.”

Arthur laughs quietly to himself, Hamish reminds him a bit of you. 

It doesn’t take long to find the horse. But Hamish wasn’t lying, he was a right bastard. It was more of a chore than Arthur thought it would be to get him lassoed and corraled back to the old man. 

Hamish’s leg, as he’d promised, was still tucked into the stirrup, the wooden appendage waving in the wind as Buell stomped around. “Oh!” Hamish shouts, waving his hand as Arthur brings the horse forward. “Shoot the son of a bitch, I’ll go get me somethin’ nicer,” he mutters, reluctantly bringing a hand up to pet Buell’s nose. 

Arthur offers Hamish a hand up, holding the wooden leg out for him to take. Hamish holds himself steady on a nearby rock and latches the leg back on. “Cannonball,” he says idly. 

“Which war?”

“Civil, whatchu think?” Hamish snaps, narrowing his eyes at Arthur and shaking his head. “Named this damn thing,” he lays a heavy hand on Buell's side, “after my commander. They were both pains in my ass, and they both cost me my damn leg.” Hamish laughs at himself, swinging up onto the saddle and glancing down at Arthur. “Comin’ or not?”

Perhaps it’s the loss of Hosea that has Arthur following this man. Or maybe it’s just the need for a moment of escape. Either way, he finds himself mounting Diablo and following after him. “What were you doin’ out here, anyway?”

Hamish digs his heel into Buell’s side with a huff, driving the horse down a small path Arthur wouldn’t have found on his own. “I went out to get some bait. Got this pike that’s been eatin’ all the fish in my creek,” he turns and gives Arthur a wild grin over his shoulder. “I’m lookin’ to turn it into my dinner.”

A smile curls upon Arthur’s lips, something uninvited and unnoticed. Things in camp have been so tense, every conversation with you or Dutch just feels like a noose tightening around his neck. He’s being drawn in so many different directions that he’s forgotten what it feels like to just talk to someone without any ulterior motives. There’s no hidden message within Hamish’s gaze or underlying threat to his words. For right now, he can just ride and pretend that all is fine within his world. 

“Can’t seem to get the damn thing on my own, maybe you’ll have better luck. You seem a touch spryer than myself.”

Arthur snorts and shoots the old man an amused look, “A touch?”

“Hey,” Hamish warns, tone light as he grins, “I may be weathered, but I can still take you down, sonny.” Arthur raises his hands in surrender, bowing his head in defeat as Hamish lets out a low chuckle. “Gotta say, been a while since I hollered at anyone ‘cept those Murfree boys. It’s quiet out here, that’s for sure.”

Arthur takes in the scenery around him. The way the sunlight just barely parts through the thick cover of trees and shines across the creek running beside them. The deer he can hear rustling off in the distance. There’s a whole other world around him, one he hasn’t been a part of in a very long time. 

“Quiet’s what I’m looking for,” he mutters, not much thought behind the words as he makes note of a bunch of wildflowers. They look like some you used to pick for the tent. 

“No point in quiet when you’re all alone,” Hamish chides softly, a heavy sadness hangs off his shoulders that Arthur’s not sure he’s ready to dissect. Hamish doesn’t leave him worrying for long, shooting Arthur a quick smile and shaking away the emotions. “Nearly there,” he tells him, nodding toward a clearing. 

Wildflowers and rocks that reflect the midday sun surround a shimmering lake he’s never noticed on his travels. Arthur’s fingers twitch toward the journal in his satchel, the scene too perfect not to draw. Still, he doesn’t think Hamish would appreciate the interruption much. 

Instead, he commits the image to memory. The quaint cabin that sits in the middle of it all, so unimposing it looks as though it had grown there like a tree. He’d have to draw it later, maybe even show it to you. 

Hamish leads him around the cabin and orders him around like he’s spent all his life doing it. Arthur drags out the fishing poles and takes the boat off the shore. He laughs when Hamish slaps his hand away when he tries to help in the boat. And he laughs even harder when Hamish nearly topples over the edge in his stubborn fit. 

The fishing itself is spent in silence. One of them occasionally breaking it by humming something or thinking they spotted movement in the water. It makes Arthur’s chest ache with a familiarity that’s a stranger to him. Yes, he used to do this with Hosea. But Hamish wasn’t Hosea, and there would never be anything to replace or soothe that gnawing pain of never being able to sit on a boat with him once more. 

“There!” Hamish slaps his shoulder hard enough to force Arthur out of his spiraling grief. He nearly knocks him out of the boat as he starts frantically jumping up and down, arms pinwheeling to keep himself balanced. “There’s that bastard, whoo I got you now!” He hollers, lighting a stick of dynamite and tossing it into the water before Arthur knows what's happening. 

He ducks, bracing himself as a ripple of water nearly puts the boat on its side. It’s quickly followed by a fin rising up in the water in the distance before disappearing once more. “My god,” Arthur gets to his feet, jaw gaping as he watches the behemoth of a fish swim away. Not once, has he ever faced a pike as large as that before. It could eat him. 

“What’re you doin’, you fool? Reel it!” Hamish snaps, already lighting another stick of dynamite to force it back towards them. Arthur shakes off the silent astonishment and quickly grabs his fishing pole. It feels like a battle, hauling this fish toward them and finally killing it. 

They must spend nearly an hour on those waters, blowing up half the lake just to haul a fish the size of Bill out of the water. Hamish is cackling and hollering the whole way back to his cabin. He goes on and on about how long that pike has been taunting him. How Arthur must be his goddamn lucky charm to have gotten it on their first day. 

It’s only when Arthur lingers by the edge of Hamish’s doorway do either of them acknowledges the shared pain between them. Arthur doesn’t know exactly what Hamish lost in the war, but he knows it must be something just as bad as Arthur. There's a creeping loneliness that they both know neither one of them can fill. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try. 

“You helped kill the bastard, sit down, I’ll cook up some of him for ya.” It’s an invitation that Arthur can’t deny. He gives Hamish a small smile, sitting down at his table while Hamish moves quickly through his cabin. 

“Did I ever tell you,” Hamish starts, as though they’ve been friends long enough for Arthur to hear his stories. Arthur doesn’t object or interrupt, he leans back, eyes alert as he listens to everything Hamish tells him. Tales of the war, the time before, the time after. Arthur shares a little about himself, but for the most part, he’s content to let the old man talk. 

That’s how most of their time together goes. When Arthur manages some time away from Dutch’s suspicious eyes, he goes to Hamish. He listens to his stories. And they use the excuse of hunting animals Hamish claims to be haunting him. It’s on his fourth visit that Arthur mentions you. 

“I don’t get it. You’re big, strong, you gotta have someone.” Hamish pauses, glancing away from his fishing pole and narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “Don’t tell me I’m your only friend, son.”

Arthur chuckles a little, shaking his head. “I got a lady,” he tells him, reluctant for Hamish to know exactly what company he keeps. Hamish nods his head, giving him an expectant look. Arthur lets out a low sigh, rubbing his palms across his pants and shrugging. “She’s gorgeous,” Hamish lets out a disbelieving snort and Arthur shoots him a look. “Smart” he continues and it’s the first time he’s ever struggled to describe you. 

Such simplistic terms don’t seem fitting for someone like you. If he had his journal, if he could show him a drawing of you, of the little bit of you he’s managed to capture on paper, maybe Hamish would understand. “And she’s a good person, a better one than I ever will be-”

“Then what’s she doin’ with a fool like you?” Hamish interrupts, snickering when he sees the irritated look on Arthur’s face.

“Weren’t you just tellin’ me what a catch I am?” Arthur snaps, eyes narrowed in amusement at the old man. 

He shrugs, tugging slightly on the string of his fishing pole and huffing out a laugh. “Eh, she can’t be that great if she’s with someone like you.” Arthur straightens up but Hamish barrels on, paying him no mind. “Bring her down tonight. I’ll cook up whatever we catch here. It’ll give me something other than your ugly mug to look at.”

Arthur scoffs, “You are a piece of work, old man.”

Hamish waves him off, leaning back in the boat and smiling softly as he waits for a fish to bite his bait. Arthur shakes his head, looking back to the familiar blue waters and feeling something like contentment settle over him. 

“You didn’t have to dress up,” Arthur tells you, holding his hand out to you. Perched atop Lady, you give his outstretched palm a long look before slowly settling your hand in his. 

“I’d hardly call a corset and some nice pants dressing up, Arthur,” you tease. It’s the first time you’ve spoken to each other without there being some underlying current of tension to your conversation. 

He leads you toward Hamish’s front door, smiling slightly when you stop to admire the garden at the side of the cabin. “I wanted to make a good impression,” you tell him, straightening up from where you’d been smelling some of the flowers. You give him a brief look out of the side of your eye before brushing dirt off the knees of your pants. “You’ve been talkin’ about him a lot and well,” you suck in a deep breath, exhaling slowly. “I know things have been hard after Guarma,” you can’t seem to look at him, eyes always darting away from his. 

Arthur stays silent, worried anything he says will ruin the first honest conversation you two have had. “And everythin’ has been so odd between us." You take a step forward and Arthur follows, craving the closeness that has been so sorely lacking. Looking up, you finally manage to meet his eye. The hurt and frustration so plainly displayed on your face makes his stomach clench. 

“I care about you, Arthur, deeply. And that’s not ever goin’ to change.” He expects there to be a ‘but,’ some clause added on that means he needs to change his ways. Or even you telling him that you just can’t handle this life anymore. He wouldn’t blame you if you told him that, but just the thought of it makes him hurt. 

Instead, you give him a smile and lean up, pressing your lips timidly against his cheek. Your hands find his, squeezing slightly, like an assurance to you both that there’s still something to be saved between you. 

Arthur can’t help himself as he turns his head, capturing your lips between his own and tugging you closer. You let out a short huff of laughter, smiling against his lips. It’s a chaste kiss, certainly one of the more demure ones you’ve shared. But it means more to him than he ever thought it would. 

“What the hell are you two doin’?” You startle back from him, eyes wide as you turn. Hamish has his head peeked around the corner of his porch, a stern look on his face but a slight mischievous tilt to his lips. “I invited you to dinner, I didn’t need a show to come with it,” he scolds, but there’s no hiding the humor in his tone. 

You bite your lip and move away from Arthur, though you let your hand linger in his as long as you can before you slip to the porch. “It’s nice to meet you,” you tell Hamish sheepishly. 

“Hm,” Hamish shakes his head as he looks at you, “Can’t believe you let Arthur fool you into bein’ with him.” He grins at Arthur’s affronted scoff and nods you along. “Go on inside, fish is almost ready.” You send Arthur one last look before heading off. 

Climbing the steps of the porch, Arthur lightly shoves at Hamish’s shoulder. “What’re you playin’ at, old man?”

Hamish shrugs, beckoning him inside, “I need somethin’ to entertain myself with.”

“How long have you been out here?” You ask Hamish as you settle down at his too-small table. He plates the fish and takes a seat across from Arthur, brow wrinkled as he thinks. 

“Well,” he laughs lightly and shakes his head. “It’s been so damn long, I can’t quite remember. Probably longer than you’ve been walking, sweetheart.”

Your eyes round, something like concern flitting across your face. “All on your own?” Arthur pauses from where he’d been cutting into his meal, content to let you carry the conversation. He glances up at Hamish, gauging the look on his face. 

Hamish’s solitary lifestyle has been something Arthur’s been avoiding talking about. He knows there’s something painful in Hamish’s past, something he does his best to keep quiet about. Arthur hasn’t wanted to push, too afraid that he’d ruined the good thing they had going. 

But the look on the old man’s face isn’t defensive or angry. It’s soft, his eyes are sad as he looks nostalgic, as if thinking back to happier times. “All on my own,” he confirms and Arthur sees the way your expression slacks with sympathy. “Honestly, this cabin is starting to feel too big,” he admits, glancing around at the barren walls. 

Where some would have family portraits, heirlooms, or memorabilia, Hamish has mounted deer and stuffed fish. There’s nothing besides a slightly dusty metal from the war to hint at what his life had once looked like. “It needs a family, or,” he glances back at you and smiles, “someone besides a sad old man.”

Hamish turns back to his meal and asks Arthur something, he responds vaguely, eyes still trained on your face. Your gaze has hardened as you glare down at the fish on your plate. There’s a wrinkle between your brows that he’s come to know as you plotting something. Whatever Hamish has said has given you an idea that Arthur’s not sure he wants a part of. 

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Hamish shouts, jumping from his seat and running toward the window. “That goddamn bastard!” 

You shoot Arthur a bewildered look and he shakes his head, standing up to join Hamish by the window. “What is it?”

“That boar! It’s back!” Hamish points to a vague shadow of a shape on the crest of the hill. It’s larger than any boar he’s ever seen, but Hamish seems to be cursed with animals of legendary size and vindictiveness. He runs from the window, grabs the rifle mounted above his fireplace, and runs toward the front door. “You better get a move on, boy, I ain’t waitin’ for ya!” He hollers over his shoulder, already whistling for Buell. 

Arthur sighs and gives you an apologetic look. “I oughta make sure he don’t get himself killed.” 

Smiling, you wave him along, “Go ahead, though,” you muse, glancing out the window, “it doesn’t look like he needs much help.” Arthur turns, letting out an aggrieved huff as he sees Hamish already shooting wildly at the beast. 

“Won’t be long,” he promises as he rushes out the door. 

He only vaguely hears your small, “I’ve heard that before.”

Arthur spots Buell grazing in a small patch of grass and leaves Diablo beside him. The two horses don’t seem to get along very well, but he’s more concerned with the trail of blood in the underbrush than them. 

Kneeling down to investigate, he’s stopped by nearby shouting. “I’ve almost got him, Arthur, hurry-” Hamish’s voice is cut off by a loud cry of pain and a boar squeal that almost sounds like screaming. 

Dirt flies up under Arthur’s boots as he races forward. He pushes through the thick foliage, stumbling out into an open area where Hamish lay sprawled on the ground. His body twitches, fingers weakly grasping at a dark, gaping wound in his stomach. Blood pools beneath him, soaking into the earth.

“Oh, Hamish, no,” Arthur mutters, dropping to his knees beside him. He presses his hands over the wound, trying to staunch the bleeding, but it’s no use. He can see it in the way Hamish struggles for breath, his chest stuttering with each ragged inhale.

Hamish lets out a shaky laugh, the sound wet and gurgling. “Flesh wound,” he croaks, though the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth says otherwise. His voice is strained, each word dragged from his throat like it pains him to speak. “I’m an old man, Arthur. This was bound to happen sooner or later.” Arthur wants to tell him to stop talking, to save his breath. But he’s seen death enough times to know there’s no coming back from this. 

“Don’t,” Hamish chokes on his blood and flinches forward. Arthur props him up on his knee, still keeping his hand over the wound. It’s not doing anything except prolonging this, but he can’t find it within himself to let go. Hamish settles, lungs wheezing with effort. “Don’t be like me. Don’t die lonely.”

Arthur doesn’t have the chance to tell him he’s not alone before the light leaves his eyes. He finally takes his hands off of him, looking up as he hears squealing. He spots the boar in the underbrush and picks Hamish’s rifle up off the ground. 

The trek back to the cabin is slow. Hamish’s body is slung over Diablo and Buell carries the boar. Arthur wonders if Buell knows that his master’s dead. If he can smell it, or if he even cares. 

He leads them both toward the hitching post at the side of the home. He sees you watching in the window, eyes narrowed in on Hamish’s body before you disappear from view. Footsteps sound out on the porch as he slings the body over his shoulder and walks it toward the clearing of wildflowers. 

“What happened?” You call out, voice soft as you join him. 

“Boar,” he answers shortly. He doesn’t have the patience to speak. He’s faced and caused death hundreds of times, but something about this feels like a slap in the face. It wasn’t enough that he had to lose Lenny and Hosea and then watch as what used to be his family falls apart. He had to drag Hamish into his problems, had to loop you into this business. 

He knew, when his mother died and when his son died, that he was cursed to lose everyone he loved. That he would never be allowed a happy, or a simple life. And yet, like the fool he is, he keeps trying. He keeps trying to allow himself a sliver of peace or happiness. 

You hand Arthur a shovel as he sets Hamish down on the ground and he starts to dig. Until the sun sets and the moon is high in the sky, he digs a grave for Hamish. You stand there with him the whole night, never saying a word, and for that he’s grateful. He’s learned that it's better not to have to do something like this alone. 

When he’s done, and Hamish is six feet deep, facing the east so he can see the rising sun, he leads you back to the cabin. It’s a comfortable quiet as you help him rinse the dirt and blood off his hands. You take the clothes he stores on Diablo and bring them to him, convincing him to just stay at the cabin for the night. 

He’s too tired to understand the concentrated look on your face, but there’s something niggling at the back of his mind. A sort of intuition he usually wouldn’t ignore but can’t bother with tonight. “Good night, Arthur,” you whisper but he’s already asleep before he can say it back. 

When he wakes up, you’re sitting at the table, writing something on a scrap piece of paper. You turn slightly, smiling briefly at him before going back to the paper. “What’re you writin’?” He asks, sitting up in bed and stretching out the soreness from digging for so long. 

Your shoulders tense up, expression going blank before carefully reconstructing itself into something pleasant. Placing the pen down, you slide the paper away from yourself and turn fully to face him. 

“Eagle Flies is dead.” Your voice is clipped, emotion buried beneath steel. “Dutch was at the heart of it all. He didn’t just destroy a tribe and a family for nothing but his own gain, he left you for dead.”

Arthur grimaces, shooting you a sharp look. “I don’t need the reminder-”

“I think you do, Arthur.” Your tone hardens, cutting through his defensiveness. “Charles is devastated. He won’t stay with the gang much longer after this. That’s who the letter’s for,” you say, nodding toward the paper on the table. “I need to tell him some things before he disappears for good.”

Arthur watches you carefully. There’s something else behind your words, something bigger than just grief over Eagle Flies. A knot of unease tightens in his stomach.

“John and Abigail are leaving soon,” you continue, voice steady but insistent. “They won’t risk Jack getting caught up in Dutch’s mess. Sadie’s been itching to go off on her own for a while-”

“What’re you gettin’ at?” Arthur snaps, frustration creeping in. He’s tired, exhausted from everything, and you dragging this out isn’t helping.

You inhale sharply, rolling your shoulders back as if bracing yourself. “I want to stay here.” Your expression is unreadable, your voice flat. “Here or anywhere else, but I am not going back to that camp. I won’t.”

Arthur stiffens, dragging a hand down his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He tugs his shirt back on with sharp, jerking movements, frustration simmering beneath his skin. “You want me to just leave?”

You shake your head, voice calm but firm. “I want you to do what you need to do.”

Arthur doesn’t believe that. He can’t accept that you would be so calm giving him permission to leave again. He searches for an ulterior motive, for some hidden tone to your words, even though he knows there won’t be one. “They’re my only family. You expect me to just walk away?”

Your expression softens, but he can see it in your eyes, the steel behind each word. Your resolve isn’t bending, you won’t be changing your mind anytime soon. “I expect you to decide for yourself, for once.” You step closer to him and he feels two ideals, two lives, warring against each other in the back of his mind. 

“You’ve spent your whole life followin’ someone else’s lead- Dutch’s, Hosea’s.” Arthur wants to leave before he has to listen to anymore, not ready to confront the truth. “Even now, you’re just tryin’ to hold it all together because you think you have to.”

Arthur swallows hard, “It ain’t that simple,” he argues, even though, deep down, it truly is. 

“It is,” you counter gently, voice calm like you’re soothing a bucking horse. “I’m not tellin’ you to abandon anyone. But you know how this ends,” the look in your eyes shifts. It changes from something earnest to the distant gaze of someone whose sick and tired of marking new graves. “You’ve always known.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, his jaw tightening as he turns away from you. If he doesn’t meet your eyes, maybe he won’t have to face the truth in them. 

But you’re stubborn as all hell and you never know when to quit. “I’m stayin’ here. This is my choice. And I’ll be here when you get back,” you pause, your last words quieter, “if you choose to come back.”

Arthur hesitates by the door. There’s so much hanging over the gang, the Pinkertons, Cornwall, Dutch’s tightening grip. Even if they all wanted to leave, Dutch would never let them. And Arthur… 

Arthur has to see this through. 

“I have to go.” His voice is quiet, resigned. 

“Then go,” you tell him as if it’s the simplest idea in the world. 

He lingers a moment before stepping through the door. He doesn’t look back, but he knows what he’s fighting for now. What he’s fighting to come back to. 

Arthur rides into camp, his gut twisted with unease. He’s not sure what he was expecting, certainly not an idyllic scene, but the sight before him still takes the breath from his lungs. 

Molly lies sprawled in the dirt, blood soaking the earth beneath her. Mrs. Grimshaw hovers over her body, shotgun in hand and the barrel still smoking. Her face is unreadable. The rest of the gang looks at her in stunned silence, some horrified, others grim. 

“She said,” Susan mutters, voice hoarse. “She said she sold us out. Gave us up to the Pinkertons.”

Arthur’s stomach drops. He steps forward, his voice low and urgent. “No, she didn’t,” he looks at Molly, the flickering light of the fire dancing across her lifeless face. He turns his gaze to the real snake in their midst. “It was Micah.”

Mrs. Grimshaw pales and Micah scoffs. “Oh, give me a goddamn break.” He leans lazily against a post, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk tugging at his lips. His eyes are alight with amusement as if this is all some great joke to him. “You’re graspin’, Morgan. I get it, you need someone to blame, and Molly’s already dead, so why not pin it on me?”

Arthur’s jaw clenches, “I see you for what you are, you rat bastard.”

Micah just shrugs, cocky as ever. Mrs. Grimshaw, though, in all of her wisdom and unflinching loyalty, sees right through him. Her eyes narrow and she comes to stand beside Arthur, “Arthur’s right.”

That’s all it takes. The shift on Micah’s face is instantaneous. The gunshot rings out before Arthur can even react. Mrs. Grimshaw jerks back, her body crumpling to the ground. Blood seeps through her blouse and spreads across her chest. 

The camp erupts. Shouts ring out, insults are thrown, and guns are pulled by people who had once called each other friend and brother. Dutch steps forward, getting between Arthur and Micah, his hands raised, eyes darting between them both. Arthur can’t read his face. It’s calm on the surface, but beneath it, something fragile and uncertain lingers. 

Micah steps back, but he isn’t alone. Bill and Javier fall in beside him, weapons drawn. 

John pushes Abigail and Jack behind him. Charles and Sadie round up the rest of the women, dragging John’s family off as they lead them to the horses to flee. John meets Arthur’s eyes, and there’s no hesitation. He grabs his revolver and steps to Arthur’s side. 

Arthur breathes out sharply, giving Dutch one last chance. “You can still do this,” he tells him, voice raw. “You can still make this right, Dutch. You can stop this.”

Dutch’s face twists, pain, doubt, anger, all flickering at once. He shakes his head slowly. “I thought of you as a son, Arthur.” His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. Then louder, firmer, “I can’t believe you’d betray us.”

Before Arthur can say another word, the Pinkertons ride in, guns blazing. Chaos takes hold of the camp as Micah takes his eyes off of him to start shooting at the others. Arthur doesn’t hesitate, grabbing John as they bolt for their horses. Bullets fly past them, grazing against their clothes and nearly nicking them. Pinkertons certainly aren’t good shots. 

They mount the horses, racing through the woods. The sound of gunfire and shouting follows behind them before slowly fading. They can’t afford to slow down or stop, wordless as they push their horses harder and faster than the animals can stand. 

They don’t stop until they reach the base of a mountain. The money’s nearby, stashed away in Dutch’s greed-fueled paranoia. It’s their only chance of making something out of this mess. Arthur can’t afford to let Dutch and the other’s get to it first. 

Arthur dismounts and John follows. “This is it,” Arthur turns toward John, placing his hand on his shoulder. “You take the money, you get Abigail and Jack outta here. Make somethin’ of yourself.”

John frowns, shaking his head. “Arthur, I ain’t-”

“Go,” Arthur’s voice is firm. The finality of it stops John short. “I’ll hold ‘em off.”

John hesitates, and Arthur knows how desperately he wants to stand beside him and fight. To prove that he’s more than a coward. But he knows better than to argue, and he knows he can’t leave his family behind. He gives a short nod and starts running. 

Arthur begins his climb up the mountain, hoping to find a vantage point to hold the Pinkertons and the others off. He’s not far when he hears them behind him. Turning, he sees Micah and Dutch closing in. 

Micah grins, “Should’ve run while you had the chance, Morgan.”

White hot fury floods through Arthur’s veins, it pushes him forward and he lunges at Micah, grappling him to the ground. Micah lets out a wheeze, his blackened lungs not prepared for the attack. He doesn’t hesitate, bringing his fist down until he feels bones crunch under the force of his hand. 

Micah struggles against him, kicking him off and struggling to his feet. Arthur lets him get up and then he goes after him again. He pins him against the wall of rock behind them both, letting his rage drive him forward as he hammers against his face. Micah keeps gasping for air, arms rising feebly in defense only to get knocked down again. 

A click echoes through the cold air and Arthur freezes, dropping Micah and letting him slump to the dirt. His eye is purpled, swollen completely shut and Arthur almost can’t recognize him anymore. 

He turns, finding Dutch standing behind him, gun aimed at his chest. 

For a long, silent moment, they just stare at each other. Dutch’s finger hovers over the trigger and Arthur just watches. He sees the conflict in Dutch’s eyes, the doubt warring with years of manipulation and ego. 

But in the end, Dutch does what he always does. 

He runs away.

Micah groans, nails digging into the dirt as he struggles for air. Arthur doesn’t bother finishing him off. He watches Dutch disappear into the night and leave them both behind. Breathing slowly, his chest heaving, Arthur turns away from Micah and leaves him to rot. 

The ride back to the cabin is slow. Every muscle in Arthur’s body aches, his lungs burning with each breath, but for the first time in a long while, he’s not carrying the weight of the gang on his shoulders. It’s over. Dutch is gone. Micah is as good as dead. The life he’s known has fallen apart, but he’s still here. And he’s free. 

He crests the final hill, the cabin coming into view, and there you are- waiting. 

You’re not crying with worry or pacing in anger that he left again. You stand, arms crossed, watching the road like you always knew he’d come back.

Arthur exhales, something in his chest easing at the sight of you. He slows Diablo to a stop, dismounting with a grunt of pain. You don’t rush over to him and demand to know what happened, or how he got the fresh bruises littering his skin. The both of you have always known that the only way this was going to end was bloody. Arthur looks up and you hold his gaze, waiting for him. 

Waiting for him to finally decide. The outlaw life, or this new one with you. 

He takes a step toward you, and you stay still as a statue, another and he’s nearly on top of you. You don’t move away or take a step back, you peer up at him, meeting his gaze expectantly. “It’s over,” he tells you simply. 

You nod, nothing gleeful or victorious on your face that you finally got him right where you wanted. You’re not Dutch, this was never about controlling him, he realizes that now. Without his loyalty blinding him, he can finally understand that you were only ever trying to help him. “I know,” your voice is calm as your eyes rove over his face. 

A silence stretches between you, heavy with words left unsaid. Then, slowly, Arthur lifts his hand toward you. You don’t pull away, and when his fingers brush your waist, you sigh, your shoulders easing like you’ve been holding yourself together for too long. Arthur doesn’t waste any more time pulling you in close to him, the both of you holding each other up. 

Arthur breathes out slowly, resting his forehead against yours and pulling you as close as he can get. Your hands come up, gripping his shirt like you’re trying to make sure he doesn’t slip away. But he knows he won’t, not ever again. 

For the first time in what feels like forever, Arthur allows himself to feel real and true hope. He keeps you tight in his embrace, and you bury your face in his neck, he can feel your lashes flutter against his neck as they finally close and you relax against him. He’ll make something of this second chance. He’ll become a man you can be proud to call your own. 

As the sun rises, casting its golden light over the both of you, Arthur finally leaves behind his old life, to begin this new one with you. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

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[activesplooger]

HOOTERS | Adam x Reader | Hazbin Hotel

summary: hooters worker encounters a recently divorced Adam at work.

notes: this is so funny to me idk why America core fr. also if you don't know hooters is a restaurant in America where guys go and the woman wear like short shorts and low cut tops. usually, the woman who work there will pretend to be "into" the guys so they tip em better. ig its kind of a human au idk this is being written in like 30 minutes and also this is centered a lot on adams thoughts idk

cw: adam, harassment, hooters

Adam sat hunched over in his chair, hovering over his beer, his brow furrowed as he stares blankly in front of him. The divorce between him and Eve had just been finalized, and tonight, Abel and Caine were at her house, leaving Adam completely alone for the first time in over 30 years. "Why did I even come here?" he grumbled under his breath.

In his twenties, this place was forbidden paradise. He was married early on in his life, he didn't have time for Hooters— and no way would Eve let him ogle at skimpy waitresses while she was at home taking care of two kids. Something about it being "unfaithful". Ironic.

Now that he's finally here, it's not all he made it out to be. It just makes him miss his wife. Who cares if 20 girls have their ass and tits out? He wants his Eve back.

He huffs, ready to get his stuff and leave before seeing you stride up to the table with a big smile on your pretty face. "Hi!" you beam, puffing out your chest to make your breasts seem bigger, "Welcome to Hooters, I'm Y/N! I'll be taking care of you today. What can I get for you?".

Big doe eyes stare up at you in awe, his mouth agape yet unable to utter out any words. You chuckle softly and smile, this happened a lot here. 'Mid 40s, recently divorced,' you think to yourself, unknowingly clocking his situation to a tee. Should be an easy table! Middle aged divorcees were basically a pot of gold at this establishment.

"Sir?" you say softly. Adam blinks out of his tranced state and turns away, covering his mouth with his hand to cover his heavy blush, "Uh yeah sorry I don't usually go here so-". "No worries," you grab a menu and point to various meals, "our most popular things are our fries, hot wings, and nachos! My personal favorite are chipotle honey wings though!". Adam wasn't listening at all, he's too busy staring down your shirt to hear anything. He realizes you finished talking and snaps his head back up to look at you, "Oh uh- I'll just have... All of that, yeah.".

"You got it!" you grab the menu off the table, "I'll be right back with your food.". "Thank you," he says. "Aw you're so sweet!" you gently grab his arm, "you're welcome. I'll be back!". You walk off, leaving Adam a hot mess. He's frozen in place, eyes fixed on where you touched his arm.

You called him sweet AND touched him. That was the most affection Adam had gotten in months. Not to mention the face that your tits were totally out, begging for his attention. And fuck, the words "I'll be taking care of you today" sounded so sweet coming from those pretty little lips. Your curves, your ass that hung out of those skimpy orange shorts, the gentle sway of your hips as you walked... Your- Your- "Fuuuucckkk," Adam groaned quietly, feeling his pants grow tighter the longer he thought about you.

He quickly crossed his legs and stretched his oversized hoodie to cover the massive bulge stretching the fabric taut. His mind was a whirlwind of guilt and unwanted arousal. Just last year he had a family, a wife. And now look where he was, sitting in a hooters covering his raging boner because of that slutty fucking waitress.

You walk back to his table and set down the plates of food, "Here you are! Enjoy.". He says nothing in response, staring at the untouched plate of wings and fries you had brought him. "Everything alright?" you ask softly, gently placing a hand on his shoulder. Adam jerks his shoulder at the touch, "I'm fucking fine!". "Oh, Jesus," he sighs, "I'm sorry I- I'm going through a rough time.".

Ah. You figure he must have recently gotten a divorce. You offer a gently smile toward him and remove your hand, "It's okay, I understand. I've been having a rough time too... Enjoy your food.". Adam stares at you as you walk away. This must be fate. The two of you meeting while your both going through a shitty time?! Fuck all that guilt, he didn't need that shit anymore. He needed you.

__ Adam had been coming in the past few weeks, requesting you each time as a server. Whenever you weren't available, he'd walk out in a huff and slam the door behind him.

Each time he ate here, you had greeted him with the same warm smile, taking his order with practiced efficiency, and making sure his glass was never empty. But there was no spark in your eye, no hint of the same longing that gnawed at Adam.

Tonight, after an argument with Eve, he was particularly upset and pretty drunk. Upset about Eve, his family, his life, you. You. His eyes narrowed in on you as you bounced from table to table with the same cheerful and very friendly attitude— the same attitude you had showed him. The one that made him feel special. "Fucking slut," he mutters under his breath. How could you?

You walk up to his table, "Hey, Adam! Hows the-". "Shitty!" he interrupts, his words slurred as he speaks. "The food was shitty?" you tilt your head, "I'm sorry.". "No! you!". "I'm shitty?" you raise an eyebrow, stepping back incase he "over steps" his boundaries.

"Yes! With your slutty little outfit and- fuck!". Adam reaches out and grabs your waist, trying to pull you back to him. "Hey!" A security guard intervenes and stands in between you two, "everything okay over here?". "I-Its fine, just get him a new server," you walk away and go tend to your other tables, begrudgingly feeling a bit guilty for the guy. He was just so pathetic.

Adam groans loudly, a loud whiney moan that turns the heads of other people in the establishment. A new server tends to him, he only asks for more beer. He stays there until its after closing and he's passed out.

"Should I call someone-?" the replacement server asks you. "No no," you sigh, "I'll deal with it. Go home.". She nods and heads out. You look at him and groan, "Oh my God...".

__

You had dragged him out of from the table and all the way to the parking lot. He was just hauled through the rough roads and he was still passed the fuck out. It took all the strength in you to move him, you hoped he would've woken up but somehow he didn't. After finally getting his giant body into the back seat, you tied him down with the seatbelts and made your way to your house. It was stupid, bringing this old guy that was obsessed with you into your own home. He just seemed too stupid to do any actual harm. You made sure to lock your bedroom door though while you were sleeping. __

Adam wakes up, his head throbbing as the memory from last night comes back to him. "Fuck," he rubs his eyes. Once he looks up, he takes in the unfamiliar surroundings. He wasn't home. He wasn't at Eve's either.

"Good morning," you greet him, grabbing your things as your about to leave for your morning shift. "Where- How did I get here?". "I took you here after you harassed me and passed out," you reveal, eliciting a groan from Adam. You open the door. Adam sits up and calls out to you, "Wait! Where are you going?". "Work." you state flatly.

"No no no," Adam gets up and makes strides till theres no space between you two, "no way in fucking hell I'm letting you leave now.". "I can't leave my own apartment?" you shoot back in a snarky home. "Don't be a brat. You wouldn't have brought me home if you weren't into me," He takes your hips into his large calloused hands, "so your either into me, or your really fucking dumb.".

"I guess I could call in sick to work," you bite your lip, contemplating on what you really wanted to do. Why did you bring him home? Fuck maybe you did want him.

"Good girl," he brushes a loose strand of hair out of your face and tilts your chin up to face him, "why don'chu go make that call, sweetheart.".

__

uhh so i lost steam at the end if u wanna like take this idea and rewrite it go ahead sorry im not feeling well right now

[yourlittlegoblin]

{A Story in the Stars} Wanderer x Reader

Felt a bit nostalgic because I was thinking a lot about... well everything that recently happened in the past 5 years. Its kinda crazy that its 2025 and I should be sleeping now but um... just had to kinda write this because I'm in that semi-gloomy nostalgic feeling right now... So anyways as per usual I hope you enjoy and its gn!reader and fem!reader today/tonight

The sun hangs mercilessly overhead, casting ripples of heat over the sand as your boots sink with every step. The dry air burns your throat, but you push on, determined. This commission wasn’t supposed to be this grueling, just a simple escort mission through the Sumeru desert. Yet here you are—parched, weary, and regretting every choice that led to this moment.

Beside you, Wanderer walks with infuriating ease, his feet hovering just above the sand as if mocking your struggle. His arms are crossed, and his expression—per usual—is a mixture of disinterest and thinly veiled irritation.

"You’re slowing down," he remarks, his voice cool as a desert night.

"Thanks for the observation," you huff, wiping sweat from your brow. "Want to make yourself useful and carry the supplies?"

He scoffs, a sharp sound that barely disguises the smirk tugging at his lips. "And let you trip over yourself without me watching? I’d miss all the entertainment."

You glare at him, half tempted to throw the heavy pack in his direction. "I’m beginning to regret asking you to come."

"No, you’re not," he counters smoothly. "If I wasn’t here, some incompetent idiot from the guild would’ve taken this job. And you? You’d probably be halfway buried in sand by now."

You roll your eyes but can’t entirely argue. "So you admit you’re here because you don’t trust anyone else to keep me safe?"

He’s silent for a moment, the only sound between you the crunch of shifting sand. Then, with a sigh, he glances at you from the corner of his eye.

"At least one of us has to be sensible," he mutters. "Two fools wandering a desert wouldn’t end well."

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it—warm and bright despite the heat. His words may be sharp, but there’s no mistaking the edge of care beneath them.

"Thank you," you say softly.

His eyes narrow as if trying to brush off your gratitude, but a flicker of something gentler softens his gaze. He looks forward again, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Don’t make me regret this," he grumbles, but the fondness lingers long after the words have faded into the desert air.

{A few long hours later}

The sun had long dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in hues of purple and indigo. Stars blinked to life as a cool breeze whispered through the desert’s edge, where sand met dry, twisted trees and sparse greenery. You push past a low branch, balancing the bundle of firewood in your arms, as the soft glow of your makeshift camp comes into view.

"Finally," you sigh, stepping into the clearing. "I was starting to think the trees had some personal vendetta against me."

Wanderer doesn’t look up from his work. He’s crouched by a crude structure of overlapping branches and cloth he’d managed to fashion into a respectable shelter. His hands move deftly as he secures the last knot with a precise pull.

"Maybe they do," he says flatly. "It would explain how long you were gone."

"Ha-ha," you deadpan, dumping the wood near the fire pit. "How’s the shelter coming along?"

"Finished." He stands, brushing the dust from his hands with a look of casual superiority. "Of course, since I’m the one who built it."

You roll your eyes but can’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. The shelter is… impressive. Sturdy, well-positioned to block the wind, and, dare you say, cozy. You tilt your head, watching as he kneels by the fire pit to spark a flame. His movements are measured, precise—controlled in a way that speaks of experience.

"Where’d you learn all this?" you ask, settling beside him.

He pauses, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face before he replies, "I’ve been around."

"You mean you’ve had to camp a lot," you guess, eyes never leaving him as he strikes the flint again. Sparks dance in the air, catching the kindling with a soft crackle. The glow of the fire reflects in his eyes, sharp and clear.

He doesn’t answer directly, but the silence feels telling. "Knowing how to survive isn’t exactly something to admire," he murmurs.

"But I do admire it," you say quietly. "It’s not just about surviving. It’s about being prepared, staying calm—knowing what to do when others wouldn’t."

He glances at you then, the firelight casting shadows along his sharp features. For a moment, something unspoken lingers between you—an understanding that needs no words.

Finally, he turns away, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Well, it’s a good thing I’m here to keep you from wandering off into a desert abyss."

"And it’s a good thing I’m here to remind you to eat and be a decent human being," you retort, grinning.

"Fair trade," he mutters, shaking his head as the flames grow steady and warm.

The fire crackled between you both, the silence stretching out as you poked at the mushrooms with your stick, trying to keep them from burning. The heat from the fire seeped through your clothes, a comfort after the biting chill of the desert night. You couldn’t help but glance over at Wanderer every now and then, noticing how the glow from the flames highlighted the sharp features of his face.

"Do you think we’ll find the way back tomorrow?" you asked, trying to break the tension that had settled between you both. His eyes flickered for a moment before he gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug.

"Eventually," he replied, his tone flat but with a hint of something unspoken.

You caught his gaze for a brief second, but he turned away quickly, refocusing on the fire. It was odd, this quiet between you. Despite the lack of words, there was a certain unspoken understanding in the air, something that neither of you were quite ready to address.

You sighed, poking at the mushrooms again, unsure whether to say anything more. The fire crackled, the only sound breaking the silence.

The scent of roasting mushrooms filled the air, mingling with the earthy aroma of the forest floor and the crackling warmth of the fire. You sat cross-legged, the simple meal skewered on a stick held above the flames. Across from you, Wanderer remained silent, his gaze distant as the flickering light danced shadows over his face.

The quiet stretched, heavy and strange. You sneak a glance at him, as you had been doing for the past several minutes, eyes tracing the delicate lines of his profile. His expression was composed—impassive, even—but you could sense the restless tension coiled beneath his surface, a storm held tightly in check.

The mushrooms browned and sizzled. You shifted your grip, watching as Wanderer’s eyes flicked momentarily toward you, then away just as quickly. When you finally took a bite, the flavor was… unimpressive. Bland, slightly earthy, with no real seasoning or flair.

You chew thoughtfully before offering him a piece. "Want some?"

He eyes it, his lip curling slightly before he takes the food with a measured movement. A small, quiet bite follows.

"It’s bland," he remarks, voice flat. "But it’s a roasted mushroom. What else would it be?"

You fight back a grin at his predictably underwhelmed reaction. "Better than starving," you point out, turning your skewer over to finish the rest.

He hums, noncommittal, and the silence returns. But it feels different now—less uncomfortable, more familiar. You keep glancing at him, the warmth of the fire not quite matching the flicker of heat in your chest.

Finally, his eyes meet yours again, sharp and knowing. "You’ve been staring."

"Have I?" you ask, feigning innocence.

He tilts his head, gaze never wavering. "Why?"

"Maybe I just find you interesting," you say lightly, but your heart quickens.

"Interesting," he repeats, the word hanging in the air between you. A smirk, subtle but unmistakable, tugs at the corner of his lips. "You should be more careful. Staring too long at dangerous things tends to have consequences."

"And yet, here I am," you counter softly, the fire crackling between you both, "still staring."

His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no sharpness in them now—only something softer, something almost amused, as he looks back at you.

.

.

.

.

The fire had long since dwindled to embers, casting only a faint, warm glow that barely pushed back the shadows of the forest. You lay cocooned in your sleeping bag, the fabric warm and soft against your skin, but your mind wouldn’t rest. Every rustling leaf, every distant call of the desert’s nocturnal creatures kept you awake. You sighed quietly, shifting for what felt like the hundredth time.

Beside you, Wanderer lay still, his hands folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded and focused on the endless sprawl of stars above. The silver moonlight kissed his features, sharp and serene, while his chest rose and fell with steady breaths. He looked peaceful—almost—but the subtle tension in his frame betrayed him.

“You’re awake too,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t turn to look at you. “Obviously.”

A small silence lingers before you speak again. “What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing important.” His tone is as cool and detached as ever, but there’s a weight beneath it, something distant and unreachable.

You roll onto your side, the fabric of your sleeping bag crinkling softly. “You know,” you say, watching him, “the stars are said to carry stories. Every one of them is a memory or a legend.”

His eyes flick toward you, a faint scoff escaping his lips. “Sentimental nonsense. Stars are just burning gas, light that reaches us from countless miles away. Stories are things people make up to feel less alone.”

You pause, searching his expression. “And what’s wrong with that? Feeling less alone?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. The silence stretches between you like a thread pulled taut. Then, his voice softens—barely. “Nothing, I suppose. If it works.”

The ground is cool beneath you as you shift upright, the stars above twinkling like promises waiting to be kept. Without a word, you shuffle closer, dragging your sleeping bag until it’s right beside his. Wanderer glances at you, the arch of his brow a silent question, but he says nothing when you settle next to him, your warmth brushing his side.

"You’re taking up all the space," he grumbles.

"There’s plenty of space," you counter, resting your head on your folded arms. "Besides, I’m comfortable now."

He rolls his eyes but makes no move to push you away. Instead, he lets out a breath that’s half a sigh, half reluctant amusement.

For a moment, the silence returns, companionable this time. The stars twinkle on, indifferent to the two of you beneath them. Then, a thought strikes you, and you turn your gaze toward him with a soft smile.

"Hey… could you tell me a story?"

He narrows his eyes. "A story? You expect me to entertain you now?"

"Not just any story," you clarify, grinning. "Something from when you were younger. Something you wouldn’t tell anyone else."

The request makes him pause. His eyes grow sharp, thoughtful, and something wary flickers across his face. His lips press into a thin line. "You’re really testing your luck."

"Please? I’ll keep it a secret." You hold out your hand, your pinky extended. "Pinky promise."

For a long moment, he stares at your hand as if considering all the ways he could make you regret asking. His voice, low and deliberate, murmurs, "If I catch you telling anyone, I’ll make you wish you never learned how to talk."

"I won’t," you vow, eyes wide and earnest. "I promise."

He sighs again, muttering something about foolish trust and human sentimentality before finally, hesitantly, hooking his pinky with yours. His grip is light, careful, but it lingers longer than you expect.

With a faint, resigned hum, he lays back down, folding his hands beneath his head once more.

"There was a time," he begins, voice softer now, words woven with distant memories, "when I thought I could outrun the world." A small, almost bitter smile curves his lips. "I was wrong."

He lets the words hang between you, his voice trailing off as if caught in the gravity of a memory too vivid to forget.

"I was alone then," he continues after a moment, his tone edged with a mixture of wistfulness and resentment. "I didn’t need anyone, or at least, I convinced myself of that. I traveled far from where I was made, through forests, mountains, and deserts. Everywhere I went, I thought if I just kept moving, the past would stop chasing me. I’d be free."

You don’t interrupt, even as your curiosity prickles at the weight behind each word. His voice is steady, but his eyes remain fixed on the stars as though seeing something far beyond them.

"There was a village," he says, his brows knitting together. "A small, forgettable place filled with forgettable people. I had no reason to stop there, but I did. Just for a moment." He breathes out slowly, as though releasing a piece of himself he rarely shares. "There was a boy—barely more than a child—who thought I was some kind of spirit. He wasn’t afraid of me. Most people would have been."

The corner of his mouth lifts, but it isn’t quite a smile. "He followed me everywhere, asking questions. What I was doing. Where I was going. If I could show him how to fly." His eyes glimmer with a fleeting softness. "I told him I had no wings to teach him with, but he didn’t care. He said, ‘If you walk on air, then so can I.’"

"Did he follow you for long?" you ask gently, your voice barely above a whisper.

"For too long," Wanderer mutters, his expression darkening. "He was persistent, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him to go away. He said I reminded him of someone—an old story about a guardian who watched over the desert winds." He shakes his head as if the memory leaves a bitter taste. "I was no guardian."

"But you didn’t leave right away, did you?"

A pause stretches between you before he answers, voice quiet. "No. He asked me to stay until he could learn to ‘walk on air.’ I didn’t think he’d manage it, but… he was clever. He built a kite with his own hands. It wasn’t perfect, but the wind carried it." He sighs. "It carried him, too, for a moment. And he laughed—like he had conquered the sky."

The silence that follows is heavy, laced with something unsaid.

"What happened to him?" you ask, dreading the answer but unable to stop yourself.

"He grew up." Wanderer’s voice is flat, devoid of the warmth that had briefly flickered. "He forgot about flying. People always do."

You watch him closely, sensing the ache buried deep beneath his words. Slowly, you reach out and rest your hand lightly against his, offering nothing more than your quiet presence.

"I won’t forget," you say softly.

His eyes shift toward you, unreadable but heavy with something raw and real. He doesn’t pull away. "You better not," he murmurs. "Otherwise, you’ll owe me more than a story."

I nod, offering him a small, tired smile. "I promise, I won’t forget." And then, almost without thinking, I lean over and loop my pinky around his again, a small gesture to seal my promise. This moment feels so right that a tale of my own feels right.

"Okay," I continue, shifting slightly, my words starting to tumble out in a soft, rambling stream. "When I was little, I used to—well, I was always the kind of kid who loved to explore. I’d run off into the woods behind my house, pretending to be some sort of adventurer. I’d climb trees and make forts out of old blankets and sticks, even though my parents told me not to. They were so worried about me getting hurt, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to find something—anything—that would make sense of everything around me, you know?"

I chuckle softly to myself, the words coming easier now. "One day, I found a secret spot, hidden by vines and rocks. It was this little clearing, like it was made just for me. I’d go there almost every day, and sometimes I’d bring snacks and sit there for hours just… watching the world go by. It was peaceful. And I used to pretend I was a princess or something—surrounded by magic and adventure."

The weight of sleep starts pulling at me as I continue speaking, my voice growing softer and slower. I feel the warmth of Wanderer's presence beside me, his quiet attention making me feel safe. My eyes flutter closed, my mind slowly slipping into the soft embrace of sleep, but I can still feel the connection between our pinkies.

"And, uh, there was this one time," I mumble, my voice barely audible now, "I… I pretended the wind was telling me a secret. I told it everything, hoping it would carry my words somewhere special. To someone who would understand."

The soft rustle of his breathing next to me is the last thing I hear before my body finally gives way to sleep, the weight of exhaustion pulling me into a deep slumber.

.....

Wanderer watches me for a long moment, his gaze softening at the sound of my steady breathing. He hesitates, just for a moment, before carefully pulling the edge of my sleeping bag up a little more to keep me warm. His fingers brush lightly against mine as he does so, and for a moment, he simply hovers there, as if unsure of what to do.

He sighs softly, barely above a whisper, "You’re... such an idiot." His words are a strange mix of fondness and frustration, but there's something deeper there, something he’s not ready to acknowledge.

Then, after another long, unsure moment, he reaches over and laces his fingers gently with mine, as if he’s afraid you’ll wake up if he does it too fast. He shifts to lie on his side, facing me, his movements slow and deliberate. The moonlight catches his expression, making his gaze seem distant yet tender all at once.

And there, in the quiet of the desert night, surrounded by the warmth of shared silence, Wanderer finally lets himself fall asleep, his hand still firmly holding yours.

[jillsandwhichs]

My captain

Chapter 13 to RE Characters x Reader smutshot collection

Masterlist

Pairing: F!Reader x Chris Redfield (RE6 Version)

Summary: You stay late at work one night due to having overtime. While you're hard at work, Chris has you come into his office for an opinion on something. One thing leads to another, and he's fucking you on his desk

Status of your guy's relationship in this one shot: Friends/Co-Workers/Hookup

WC: 3.4k

Type: NSFW

Warnings: Making Out, Dirty talk, Hickies, Clit rubbing, Unprotected P in V, Rough sex, Office sex, Semi public sex, Choking, Pulling out, Slight aftercare

A/n: Hi! Hope you all enjoy. Please check out my masterlist, there's a lot of stuff there. You can get to know me, you can see the rules of my blog and then you can see all of my fanfictions. You'll be able to find the previous chapters to this fic and upcoming ones. You'll also be able to find my Wattpad & AO3. Comments, reblogs & likes are appreciated. Thank you

You clacked the papers against the desk as you straightened them out and set them to the side. You swear that is the most you've done in a day. Absolutely spent is what you are. Sadly though, you can't leave yet. Overtime is a bitch but the BSAA isn't unfamiliar with making it's employees stay later than they should have to. At the end of the day though, you hardly mind. More pay is all that matters to you.

Picking up your iced coffee, you sipped it and set it back down before glancing around the office. Empty. The only people still here are you, a few other agents spread around HQ and your captain, Chris Redfield. It's not surprising he's still here, he tends to stay late even when it isn't needed. He's in his primary office currently, it's just feet away from where you are sitting right now. It makes you feel safer, you'll admit that much.

Standing up, you grabbed the stack of papers and held them close to your chest, ready to take them down to the directors room. It is a rather tedious task. It's two flights of stairs away and half of the time, he's not even here so then you end up having to turn them in the copy room. It's very... Agitating.

As you went to leave the room, the sound of the office door to your right opening up was heard. You gandered over and gave Chris a kind smile, not expecting him to suddenly appear. "Oh, hey you." He smirked, walking over to you and looking you up and down in a friendly manner. "Hey Cap, what are you up to?" "Was about to stop by the break room to grab a coffee. You?" "Taking these to McCarthy." "Ah," he nodded, his hands in his pockets.

"Well," he glanced towards the double doors then back at you. "I can take those for you, if you'd like. I'm heading that way anyways." "Oh," you can't say no to such a kind offer. You carefully passed him the weight of papers with a faint look of gratitude on your face. "I'd seriously appreciate that. Thank you." You didn't expect him to offer such a thing. "Of course, anything for you." He winked before trailing out of the room and to his intended place.

You sighed deeply before murming to yourself and heading back to your desk. You sat down and opened up your laptop. Now all you have to do is finish your report for the last mission you went on with Chris and your shared squad. You all went to Alaska and it was a rather eventful mission, to say the least. You're glad you're all back and safe though, that is all that matters.

Opening up a doc, you began to continue typing everything up. Tonight will be a long one. The second you get home, you're hitting the hay.

Amidst of you typing on your laptop, the sound of the door opening was heard once again. You turned your head and saw Chris entering the room. "Was he able to take my papers?" "Yep, he said thanks." "Good." You gave your captain a nod before glancing back down at your laptop and typing. You just want to get this report done as soon as possible. Takeout and sleeping sounds so good right now but with how weary you're beginning to feel, you bet you'll pass out in your bed once you're home.

Chris stood there, arms crossed and eyes on you. You didn't quite know why. You looked over at him and let out an awkward chuckle. "Do you need anything?" You asked. "Nah, no." He shook his head and looked down, trying to compose himself. "Need your opinion on something though, if I can snag you for a moment or two." Just great. Just when you though you'd actually be done quicker than you thought.

You let out a loud sigh, making it clear you didn't want to but you plan to anyway. "Sure thing." You forced a slight smile and stood up, closing your doc and standing beside him. "Lead the way." You pushed your hand out. He silently huffed out a laugh before having the two of you go into his primary office.

You've been in here a few times. It's kind of small. Wooden panel walls, black carpeting, a polished desk with a black desk chair. Not to mention the countless trophies and plagues around the room and the semi-dead sat plant in the corner as well. The lighting is dim but he has a desk lamp that he primarily uses. You wonder what it is he has to show you.

"So... What's up?" You said softly, crossing your arms and facing him. "This." He pulled out a sheet. "An outline of our upcoming mission. How do you feel about it?" You took the clipboard from his hand and analyzed what was on it. It seems rather regular to you, nothing out of the ordinary. "I like it." You smiled. "Glad I'll be with you the whole time, Lord knows Jensen will talk my ear off if I'm paired with him again." You laughed.

Chris nodded and took the clipboard from you. "Glad you like it. Ever since I started making these instead of others, they've been better, don't you think?" "Yeah, for sure." You nodded and looked around his office. He's not wrong. The missions have been going much more smoothly as of late and it's all because of him. Chris is a good captain, you have to give him that.

"Anywho though, thanks." He smirked and put the clipboard back into the drawer of his desk. "Of course." "And for your help," he paused for a moment and grabbed a coffee that was on his desk. You noticed he had two when coming back into the room but you didn't think it was for you, you just assumed he's an advant coffee drinker. "Oh, thank you! How thoughtful."

Right as you went to grab the paper cup from his hands, some of it splashed onto your shirt. The white lid wasn't on all the way. It stained your white BSAA merch shirt. You gasped and stepped away, watching as the brown, creamy liquid seeped into your chest area and dribbled as it went down. "Shit." Chris said in a disappointed tone. He turned around with haste and looked for a rag until he instead settled on thin tissues.

"I am so sorry." He murmured, dabbing your shirt awkwardly. You watched Chris as he cleaned your shirt off frantically. The sight was rather cute actually. You don't really care about a random work shirt, you have tons. You giggled as he continued and he looked up at you with a puzzled look. "Sorry, sorry..." You chortled, blushing at this point from your laughter. "You're just funny." You shook your head before snorting. Chris smirked and wiped your shirt off a little bit more. "You have a cute laugh." He commented, tossing the tissues in the trash.

You looked down at your shirt. Well, unfortunately, the stain is still there but at least your shirt is dry. Though, you can practically see your bra and cleavage through it, so that is a bit awkward. Then it clicked in your head what Chris had said. "You think so?" "Mhm." He leaned against his desk and gazed at you, his eyes dark and full with an emotion you don't recall ever seeing displayed within them. "Sorry," he huffed out a laugh, "I'm a bit forward, huh?" "It's no problem!" You smiled and uncrossed your arms. "Really, it isn't." You reassured him.

"Good," he then took a step closer to you, "because I think you're fucking hot." That sent literal shivers down your spine. Your back hit the door when he was closer to you and you giggled. "You do?" Now this isn't very professional of him but really, do you mind? Not necessarily. He mentally slapped himself in the face before blowing out a sigh. "Fuck, sorry." He stepped away but you grabbed his shoulder. "Chris, I mean," you shook your head, "Captain... I think you're... You know... As well..." You are stuttering and stumbling. How embarrassing.

Physically, Chris blushed though it wasn't visible. He wasn't lying. He finds you to be a rather attractive woman and you are. He just doesn't know what's gotten into him. Maybe the built up tension between you two is at its point of release and well, there has always been something going on between the two of you - anyone could've called that.

He stared into your eyes momentarily before whispering "Fuck it." And pressing his larger body up against yours and smashing his lips to your lips. You gasped and kissed him back, no hesitation occurring. You encased your arms around his neck as his lips roughly & passionately coursed over yours. Ten minutes ago, you were working on paperwork and now, you're literally swapping salvia with your fucking Captain. You are dirty.

As the two of you made out, you slightly moaned and Chris took that as an opportunity to slide his tounge into your mouth. It was wet and his mouth was warm. It's been awhile since something like this has happened to you and you're glad your celibacy is being broken by Chris. He's sexy and you can already tell, just by this, that he's going to absolutely rock your world.

Your guy's tongues moved rapidly together. His hands are all over you, one moment they rest upon your waist then the next he's cupping your flushed cheeks. You can't help but tangle your fingers in his deep brown hair, tugging and yanking on it.

This is truly not what you expected for this evening.

"Wait, wait, woah, woah, woah... We shouldn't." You lightly pushed him off of you as you ran your fingers through your hair. "You're right." Chris stated. You turned to face him. "But that doesn't mean I won't." You then kissed him again and this time, he walked with you until you hit your bum against his desk. He lifted you onto it, never breaking the sloppy kiss whilst doing so.

This is dangerous. It is so thrilling. It's fun. The fear of being caught is honestly just enticing. The fact that you may or may not be about to be fucked by your captain in his office is crazy to you. You broke from the kiss for a moment and smiled. "Captain..." "Call me Chris." He said with his forehead pressed against yours. "I want you." You said softly yet seductively. He smirked. "Oh yeah? How do you want me?" Oh, so he knows how to talk dirty. Perfect.

You cutely giggled and nibbled on your lower lip. "I want," your hands then went to his secure leather belt, tugging on it whilst you gazed into those sexy orbs. "To be fucked by you, right here, right now." You laughed and tilted your head to the side. He let out a breathless laugh and politely kissed your cheek. "You sure about that? I don't play nicely." He whispered in your ear. "Oh, I am very sure." You smiled before kissing him once again.

Chris let out a dark laugh before he ripped his belt off, allowing his jeans to fall to his ankles. You held onto his hips gently as he helped you lift your bum up, giving him the chance to take your jeans off. He took them off of your ankles and smiled. "You are just..." He looked you up and down. "Beautiful." It made you happy to hear that. You didn't think Chris thought of you this way.

You are wearing a matching set of a bra and panties. They are a deep shade of crimson red and the panties even have a cute dark purple bow on them. "Cute." Chris snorted before kissing you again. His lips trailed from your lips to your cheek, then to your neck where he then began to leave hickies all over it. All you could do was sit there and take it. You moaned, loudly. He knows what he's doing.

While he left hickies and love bites on your neck that'll surely catch the attention of some co-workers tomorrow, you could feel yourself damp against the line of your panties. You are yearning for him. Unfortunately, you are ovulating therefore you're a literal animal but hey, it's the way of womanly hood. You bit your lower lip as you felt him leave one final hickie onto your neck, the one that'll definitely be the most visible.

Chris pulled away with a devilish smirk. "You are so sexy... I've always thought that, you know?" He kissed you again and set one hand on your inner thigh, squeezing it and slapping it slightly before he then stuck part of his hand into your panties, making your breath shutter. "Oh?" You laughed out breathlessly, trying to remain calm. "Mhm, that's right." He kissed you again as his fingers began to play in your folds.

You let out a breath that you swear you've been holding this entire time. Your head tilted back as he played with your pussy so delicately. You bit your lower lip and whispered: "Chris... Fuck." You panted out. His fingers skillfully moved around your nub. The pressure in which he did it was perfect. You moaned in a needy way as he rubbed it faster, making you more and more wet. Fuck, he seriously knows what he's doing.

"Does that feel good?" Chris said softly against your ear before he nibbled on it. You nodded. "So good." You confirmed. It does. One finger swiftly moved along between your folds whilst his other one caressed her clit. "Mmm, good. You're so wet." He kissed your lips softly, pushed your head back a bit. "I am." You nodded. "Just for you." You giggled against his lips and you felt a dark smirk form on his face.

He pulled away for a moment before dropping his pair of underwear down to his ankles. Your mouth dropped as you saw his hardened cock in form before you. He's bigger than you expected. You looked up at him and smiled brightly, letting him know you are beyond ready for him. "Here." You lifted your hips up off of the desk, allowing him to pull your panties down, which he did. As he did, he laughed out as he looked at your pussy. "God, I need you-now."

You got yourself into a more comfortable position before he then set his hand on the desk, his other grabbing a hold of his member. "You ready princess?" "Mhm." You mumbled before kissing his cheek gently. This was it.

Chris then put his length deep within you. As he pushed himself in, all you could do was take in. You breathed in sharply and had your arms wrapped around his neck as he did, mainly for support. "You're so damn tight." He groaned into your ear as he settled into you. "So warm." You blushed as he spoke that way to you. It's turning you on way more. Fuck. You can't believe you're doing this with your very own boss.

He began to move into you. His thrusts were slow but deep. He made sure to be careful with you. "Does it feel nice?" Chris asked you softly. "Yes, it does... So nice..." You smiled as he fucked you with a pace that was perfect for you. Though, you wouldn't mind him being a bit rougher.

You placed your arms behind your back as he began to pick up the pace. Chris was still gentle, but you figure that won't last long. "God, I've thought of this so many times." He admitted. He has? That's took you by surprise. You leaned your head back and moaned loudly, the pleasure is impeccable. He drove his head into your neck and suckled on it, just as he had been earlier. That plus the fact he's fucking you was insanely sexy and made you feel so damn good.

"Fuck," Chris panted out as his movements began to pick up. He moved away from your neck and instead grasped it with his free hand, the other on the desk. "Look at me." He grunted, his thrusts now rough, making you dance internally. You looked at him dead in the eyes as he choked you. He did it firmly, and you thrived off of that. "Shit, harder, please." You whined out, never breaking the eye contact the two of you were sharing.

Before you knew it, your very own captain was pounding into you. The desk was shaking beneath you even. All you could do was sit there and take it because well, there was no getting out of this (Not that you wanted to). "Fuck, you like that? Rough?" "Uh-huh!" You moaned out, biting your lower lip and being a ragdoll as his disposable. "Good girl." He then let go of your neck and instead pressed his lips to yours, kissing you so passionately as he roughly moved into you.

Deep inside of you, you could feel it. That all too familiar feeling of ultimate pleasure. Admittedly, it's been a bit since you've felt it and it's none other than Chris bringing you to it. Your sense of reality slowly slipped out of your head as his relentless thrusts into you only kept up at the same roughness & hardness as they've been consistently going at. He noticed this. He smirked. "Gonna cum for me? Right on my desk?" He asked you in a low, sensual voice." All you could do was nod. Yes.

Just like that, you came. Your walls tightened around his length and he grunted before quickly pulling out and releasing on your lower stop... On your shirt... You didn't care though, at least not in the moment. How could you? You just got fucked absolutely senseless on your captains desk. All you did was smile and hold onto him for dear life as your orgasm slipped out of you gracefully.

Chris stepped away and admired you before picked up your pants and handing them to you. "Fucking hell." He laughed. "Fucking hell is right." You giggled in response as you put your underwear back on fully, then your jeans. He did the same except he didn't even bother with his belt. You stood up but almost fell over; Your legs felt like jelly. Chris snickered and grabbed your hips before looking down at you with a look of pride.

"You're proud of yourself, hm?" You smirked at him. "Very." He leaned down and kissed you softly, using one of his hands to cup your cheek. You melted. You didn't expect for him to act this way after the fact. Chris pulled away and kept his hand on your soft cheek. "I'll let you get back to work but uh," He caressed your cheek as he paused, "Come back to my office tomorrow, I'll buy us lunch." He kissed your forehead.

Now he's buying lunch for you two? Maybe he's a romantic.

Nodding, you let go of him and turned around. "Think you can walk?" He was being such a cocky asshat. You snorted and flipped him off playfully. "I'll manage." He winked at you and that was that.

[k1nkyshitz]

"𝟏𝟎"

A decade is a really long time

10 years.

Such a highly regarded number. All things rated a 10 are considered perfect. The crowds favourite.

Sae was your favourite. Your number 10.

It has been 10 long years dating Itoshi Sae and it all comes down crashing on you. He's no longer yours. The number shines in your face on a billboard as you make you way back home as if mocking you. The man with his strickingly sharp features, long eye lashes and piercing turquoise eyes posed with a perfume he is advertising for. The number 10 shining on the label as the perfume's name.

You don't remember how long you spent suspecting it. How distant he had become like a stranger in your own home. You knew he'd might toss you aside for soccer when you first persued him. He knew nothing but soccer until you infiltrated his very small world.

A decade full of memories. Fond and warm ones. You don't think you've ever seen Sae smile so much before. You grew up with him, beside him. Watching him under the field's spotlight. No one has ever taken such a big part of your heart and that's why even after he invited you to dinner that night, you still loved him

When was the last time you saw his eyes crinkle in amusement whenever you were trying to fix his unruly hair before practise? Or the small exchanges of your hopes and dreams with one another just before bed. How Sae would tell you he wanted to be the world's best mid fielder and you'll always reply with "you will be" with a soft chuckle as you trace his jawline.

Now the home shared between the two of you remains like an empty husk devoid of the memories that were once spent in there. Where was your sae?

1 year ago

Sae has been distant. It's been weeks since you both gone on a proper date or had a proper intercation. He's up before you and comes home once you've passed out on the couch. You can't help but feel likes he's avoiding you. The man whose grown to love you, cherish you is suddenly distancing himself? Impossible its all in your head.

You think it is anyway. You try from time to time reaching out to him and his replies are...disappointing.

He doesn't touch you anymore. His back facing you each night you sleep. Somethings changed. Your heart tugs at every short and cut off interaction you have with Sae. Even when you leave him his every morning kiss before you head to work, its now short and brief with a quiet 'love you' to which he only grunts in response, eager to leave the house.

You can't help but hear the doubts in your head, is he seeing someone outside? Did you do something wrong? Did something happen to him?

Pacing around the kitchen, spiralling into your own fears thinking about to approach this with him. You need to to talk to him. You always reminded him about how big you are with commmunicating. Even as closed off as he seemed, he would always reassure you and seek you out first whenever conflict bubbled between the two of you.

He knew how important communicating was to you. He knew how important he was to you.

"Dinner. XXX Hotel, 7pm". A wave of hope washes over you. This was his way of making it up to you think. You could almost berate yourself that you thought after a decade your boyfriend doesn't care anymore. But as you both finished dessert and the wine stops flowing, he speaks. A full sentence.

"Lets break up.' His eyes not daring to meet yours, choosing to stare at his half eaten tiramisu. You can hear how strained his tone is, how he must have worked up a lot of courage to say this.

"'I'm sorry" he clears his throat before sitting up straighter then before. "I should have told you before, when I no longer felt the same way I used to feel about you". The rest of his apology becomes background noise, a low droning. You swore you felt your heart drop. The dress you had sent for cleaning tonight was now crumpled at how hard you were clenching at it. You feel numb, like you had expected it. All these weeks of radio silence.

"We can ignite that spark again. We can make it work. You don't mean it" was what you should have said.

"I still love you" is what you wanted to say.

"Okay" was what told him. You had unknowingly prepared yourself for the worst. You knew him all too well but even so, it doesn't hurt any less. For a person who valued communication so much, you knew there wasn't much to communicate. Not when the man you love refused to meet your eyes.

All that weeks of ignoring you, refusing any time with you and touching you. It was all so clear to you now. You felt like a fool. You felt like a fool for thinking after 10 long years of love, he'd want to fight for this. Every conversation, every meal you tried to have with him was all obligation he felt like he had to do.

You would have rather he cheated on you, ended it on bad terms or even just create a flimsy excuse using soccer. Anything but this.

How could the spark that had been glowing so bright for a decade suddenly distinguish you think?

Sae sits opposite you, silent and as still as a rock. That expressionless face of his doesn't give away what he's thinking. He looks tired you realised. Incredibly haggard. The dark eye bags heavier and more prominent near the candle light. 'How long did he wait to tell me?' you think. He must have spent nights trying to find a way to tell you without crushing you. Even after everything, he still found a way to cushion the fall after pushing you.

You can't remember what else happened that night, only the brief flash of guilt that passed his eyes.

Present time

You look back at the bright billboard. The man you spent nearly half your youth giving your heart to only for him to return it.

You didn't cry. You didn't kick a fuss. You just left without saying a word. For the past year, everything numbed inside of you.

And the man infront of you, makes you realise how out of reach he has always been. How he will always be the world's favourite. How he climbs up that ladder of success so effortlessly leaving you behind.

You hope that someone else has got what he's searching for but you prayed that that person was you.

The tears fall without notice, your chest contracts painfully as you breathe. Gasping a sob before covering your mouth and containing your tears. Itoshi Sae, the man you still loved now gone. Everything comes crashing, as you quietly sob infront of the billboard. How the realisation that you've lost him forever.

That entirety of 10 years was nothing to him. Someone was playing a cruel joke you think as you looked at him through your blurry vision of his pretty features. How you'll never feel those lips, feel his warmth anymore. You can't help but wonder, how long did he have to put this relationship until he finally broke. That while you were still pouring your heart out for him, he had completely lost it. Did he only love you cause he had to?

As you grieve for what you had with him. It all came crashing onto you.

Your world, your everything, your 10 belonged to everyone but you.

The Real Madrid, the press, his fans.

Everyone but you

[altruistic-meme]

we talk a lot about the exchange of "you lack the easy mannerisms that are usually shared with anyone" but I feel like this whole page deserves more attention

the "you thought of it?" to "and you thought of it." is just so playful and joyous from Damen, he's having so much fun teasing Laurent here

[sentientcave]

November Updates

I'm participating in a non-nanowrimo writing challenge this November, so I'm planning on working on original fiction for the month. I'm going to try and post a few chapters from works I have a big backlog of while I'm busy trying to write a novel. Title cards for the projects I'm hoping to start posting below the cut!

[prongsfish]

jan... 29... i seriously am useless. so sorry guys

[violetsareblue-selfships]

good morning!! <333

[theflyingfeeling]

tomorrow-me's gonna hate tonight-me, part 3522

(an incoherent work-related rant in the tags, read if you will but it's boring lol)

[brighteststar707]

For someone who likes to say she doesn't have a type, I do have a tendency to just date the same people in different fonts over and over huh

[non-un-topo]

The irony of having no time to buy needles so I can take my T shot because the queer genders course is keeping me SO busy...

[lesbiancolumbo]

hoping for 2023 to be one of my most productive years in terms of writing ever

[penultimatestalematewithdeath]

Me, falling asleep in class because sleep deprived: Damn, I should remember how this feels so I can write it into a new Lockwood and Co fic

My 7 current L&Co. wips staring back at me: Why have you forsaken us??

[cantquitu]

Little Miss and Squirt are proud of you.

AND THAT'S ALL THAT MATTERS!!!!!! <3

[mumble-ssketches]

Hi